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Title: Ulysses 

Author: James Joyce 

Release Date: August 1, 2008 [EBook #4300] 
[Last updated: November 17, 201 1] 

Language: English 

Character set encoding: ISO-8859- 1 

*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ULYSSES *** 



Produced by Col Choat, and David Widger 



ULYSSES 



by James Joyce 



Contents 



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8/8/12 Ulysses by James Joyce 

— II- 



III 



— I — 

Stately, plump Buck Mulligan came from the stairhead, bearing a bowl of lather on which a mirror 
and a razor lay crossed. A yellow dressinggown, ungirdled, was sustained gently behind him on the 
mild morning air. He held the bowl aloft and intoned: 

— Introibo ad altare Dei. 

Halted, he peered down the dark winding stairs and called out coarsely: 

— Come up, Kinch! Come up, you fearful Jesuit! 

Solemnly he came forward and mounted the round gunrest. He faced about and blessed gravely 
thrice the tower, the surrounding land and the awaking mountains. Then, catching sight of Stephen 
Dedatus, he bent towards him and made rapid crosses in the air, gurgling in his throat and shaking his 
head. Stephen Dedatus, displeased and sleepy, leaned his arms on the top of the staircase and looked 
coldly at the shaking gurgling face that blessed him, equine in its length, and at the light untonsured hair, 
grained and hued like pale oak. 

Buck Mulligan peeped an instant under the mirror and then covered the bowl smartly. 

— Back to barracks! he said sternly. 

He added in a preacher's tone: 

— For this, O dearly beloved, is the genuine Christine: body and soul and blood and ouns. Slow 
music, please. Shut your eyes, gents. One moment. A little trouble about those white corpuscles. 
Silence, all 

He peered sideways up and gave a long slow whistle of call, then paused awhile in rapt attention, 
his even white teeth glistening here and there with gold points. Chrysostomos. Two strong shrill 
whistles answered through the calm 

— Thanks, old chap, he cried briskly. That will do nicely. Switch off the current, will you? 

He skipped off the gunrest and looked gravely at his watcher, gathering about his legs the loose 
folds of his gown The plump shadowed face and sullen oval jowl recalled a prelate, patron of arts in 
the middle ages. A pleasant smile broke quietly over his lips. 

— The mockery of it! he said gaily. Your absurd name, an ancient Greek! 

He pointed his finger in friendly jest and went over to the parapet, laughing to himself Stephen 

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Dedahis stepped up, followed him wearily halfway and sat down on the edge of the gunrest, watching 
him still as he propped his mirror on the parapet, dipped the brush in the bowl and lathered cheeks 
and neck. 

Buck Mulligan's gay voice went on. 

— My name is absurd too: Malachi Mulligan, two dactyls. But it has a Hellenic ring, hasn't it? 
Tripping and sunny like the buck himself We must go to Athens. Will you come if I can get the aunt to 
fork out twenty quid? 

He laid the brush aside and, laughing with delight, cried: 

— Will he come? The jejune Jesuit! 

Ceasing, he began to shave with care. 

— Tell me, Mulligan, Stephen said quietly. 

— Yes, my love? 

— How long is Haines going to stay in this tower? 

Buck Mulligan showed a shaven cheek over his right shoulder. 

— God, isn't he dreadful? he said frankly. A ponderous Saxon. He thinks you're not a gentleman. 
God, these bloody English! Bursting with money and indigestion. Because he comes from Oxford. 
You know, Dedahis, you have the real Oxford manner. He can't make you out. O, my name for you is 
the best: Kinch, the knife-blade. 

He shaved warily over his chin. 

— He was raving all night about a black panther, Stephen said. Where is his guncase? 

— A woful lunatic! Mulligan said. Were you in a funk? 

— I was, Stephen said with energy and growing fear. Out here in the dark with a man I don't know 
raving and moaning to himself about shooting a black panther. You saved men from drowning. I'm not 
a hero, however. If he stays on here I am off 

Buck Mulligan frowned at the lather on his razorblade. He hopped down from his perch and began 
to search his trouser pockets hastily. 

— Scutter! he cried thickly. 

He came over to the gunrest and, thrusting a hand into Stephen's upper pocket, said: 

— Lend us a loan of your noserag to wipe my razor. 

Stephen suffered him to pull out and hold up on show by its comer a dirty crumpled handkerchief 
Buck Mulligan wiped the razorblade neatly. Then, gazing over the handkerchief, he said: 

— The bard's noserag! A new art colour for our Irish poets: snotgreen You can almost taste it, 
can't you? 

He mounted to the parapet again and gazed out over Dublin bay, his fair oakpale hair stirring 
slightly. 

— God! he said quietly. Isn't the sea what Algy calls it: a grey sweet mother? The snotgreen sea. 
The scrotumtightening sea. Epi oinopa ponton. Ah, Dedalus, the Greeks! I must teach you You must 
read them in the originaL Thalatta! Thalattal She is our great sweet mother. Come and look. 

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Stephen stood up and went over to the parapet. Leaning on it he looked down on the water and on 
the mailboat clearing the harbourmouth of Kingstown. 

— Our mighty mother! Buck Mulligan said. 

He turned abruptly his grey searching eyes from the sea to Stephen's face. 

— The aunt thinks you killed your mother, he said. That's why she won't let me have anything to do 
with you. 

— Someone kled her, Stephen said gloomily. 

— You could have knelt down, damn it, Kinch, when your dying mother asked you, Buck Mulligan 
said. I'm hyperborean as much as you. But to think of your mother begging you with her last breath to 
kneel down and pray for her. And you refused. There is something sinister in you... 

He broke off and lathered again lightly his farther cheek. A tolerant smile curled his lips. 

— But a lovely mummer! he murmured to himself Kinch, the loveliest mummer of them all! 

He shaved evenly and with care, in silence, seriously. 

Stephen, an elbow rested on the jagged granite, leaned his palm against his brow and gazed at the 
fraying edge of his shiny black coat-sleeve. Pain, that was not yet the pain of love, fretted his heart. 
Silently, in a dream she had come to him after her death her wasted body within its loose brown 
graveclothes giving off an odour of wax and rosewood, her breath, that had bent upon him, mute, 
reproachful, a faint odour of wetted ashes. Across the threadbare cuffedge he saw the sea hailed as a 
great sweet mother by the wellfed voice beside him The ring of bay and skyline held a dull green mass 
of liquid. A bowl of white china had stood beside her deathbed holding the green sluggish bile which 
she had torn up from her rotting liver by fits of loud groaning vomiting. 

Buck Mulligan wiped again his razorblade. 

— Ah, poor dogsbody! he said in a kind voice. I must give you a shirt and a few noserags. How are 
the secondhand breeks? 

— They fit well enough Stephen answered. 

Buck Mulligan attacked the hollow beneath his underlip. 

— The mockery of it, he said contentedly. Secondleg they should be. God knows what poxy bowsy 
left them off I have a lovely pair with a hair stripe, grey. You'll look spiffing in them. I'm not joking, 
Kinch. You look damn well when you're dressed. 

— Thanks, Stephen said. I can't wear them if they are grey. 

— He can't wear them, Buck Mulligan told his face in the mirror. Etiquette is etiquette. He kills his 
mother but he can't wear grey trousers. 

He folded his razor neatly and with stroking palps of fingers felt the smooth skin. 

Stephen turned his gaze from the sea and to the plump face with its smokebhie mobile eyes. 

— That fellow I was with in the Ship last night, said Buck Mulgan, says you have gp.i. He's up in 
Dottyville with Conno fry Norman. General paralysis of the insane! 

He swept the mirror a half circle in the air to flash the tidings abroad in sunlight now radiant on the 
sea. His curling shaven lips laughed and the edges of his white glittering teeth. Laughter seized all his 
strong wellknit trunk. 

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— Look at yourself, he said, you dreadful bard! 

Stephen bent forward and peered at the mirror held out to him, cleft by a crooked crack. Hair on 
end. As he and others see me. Who chose this face for me? This dogsbody to rid of vermin. It asks 
me too. 

— I pinched it out of the skivvy's room, Buck Mulligan said. It does her all right. The aunt always 
keeps plainlooking servants for Malachi. Lead him not into temptation. And her name is Ursula. 

Laughing again, he brought the mirror away from Stephen's peering eyes. 

— The rage of Caliban at not seeing his face in a mirror, he said. If Wilde were only alive to see 
you! 

Drawing back and pointing, Stephen said with bitterness: 

— It is a symbol of Irish art. The cracked looking-glass of a servant. 

Buck Mulligan suddenly linked his arm in Stephen's and walked with him round the tower, his razor 
and mirror clacking in the pocket where he had thrust them. 

— It's not fair to tease you like that, Kinch, is it? he said kindly. God knows you have more spirit 
than any of them 

Parried again. He fears the lancet of my art as I fear that of his. The cold steelpen 

— Cracked lookingglass of a servant! Tell that to the oxy chap downstairs and touch him for a 
guinea. He's stinking with money and thinks you're not a gentleman. His old fellow made his tin by 
selling jalap to Zulus or some bloody swindle or other. God, Kinch, if you and I could only work 
together we might do something for the island. Hellenise it. 

C rarity's arm. His arm 

— And to think of your having to beg from these swine. I'm the only one that knows what you are. 
Why don't you trust me more? What have you up your nose against me? Is it Haines? If he makes any 
noise here I'll bring down Seymour and we'll give him a ragging worse than they gave Clive 
Kempthorpe. 

Young shouts of moneyed voices in Clive Kempthorpe's rooms. Palefaces: they hold their ribs with 
laughter, one clasping another. O, I shall expire! Break the news to her gentry, Aubrey! I shall die! 
With slit ribbons of his shirt whipping the air he hops and hobbles round the table, with trousers down 
at heels, chased by Ades of Magdalen with the tailor's shears. A scared calfs face gilded with 
marmalade. I don't want to be debagged! Don't you play the giddy ox with me! 

Shouts from the open window startling evening in the quadrangle. A deaf gardener, aproned, 
masked with Matthew Arnold's face, pushes his mower on the sombre lawn watching narrowly the 
dancing motes of grasshalms. 

To ourselves... new paganism... omphalos. 

— Let him stay, Stephen said. There's nothing wrong with him except at night. 

— Then what is it? Buck Mulligan asked impatiently. Cough it up. I'm quite frank with you. What 
have you against me now? 

They halted, looking towards the blunt cape of Bray Head that lay on the water like the snout of a 
sleeping whale. Stephen freed his arm quietly. 

— Do you wish me to tell you? he asked. 

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— Yes, what is it? Buck Mulligan answered. I don't remember anything. 

He looked in Stephen's face as he spoke. A light wind passed his brow, fanning softly his fair 
uncombed hair and stirring silver points of anxiety in his eyes. 

Stephen, depressed by his own voice, said: 

— Do you remember the first day I went to your house after my mother's death? 

Buck Mulligan frowned quickly and said: 

— What? Where? I can't remember anything. I remember only ideas and sensations. Why? What 
happened in the name of God? 

— You were making tea, Stephen said, and went across the landing to get more hot water. Your 
mother and some visitor came out of the drawingroom She asked you who was in your room 

— Yes? Buck Mulligan said. What did I say? I forget. 

— You said, Stephen answered, O, it's only Dedalus whose mother is beastly dead. 

A flush which made him seem younger and more engaging rose to Buck Mulligan's cheek. 

—Did I say that? he asked. Well? What harm is that? 

He shook his constraint from him nervously. 

— And what is death, he asked, your mother's or yours or my own? You saw only your mother die. 
I see them pop off every day in the Mater and Richmond and cut up into tripes in the dissectingroom 
It's a beastly thing and nothing else. It simply doesn't matter. You wouldn't kneel down to pray for 
your mother on her deathbed when she asked you. Why? Because you have the cursed Jesuit strain in 
you, only it's injected the wrong way. To me it's all a mockery and beastly. Her cerebral lobes are not 
functioning. She calls the doctor sir Peter Teazle and picks buttercups off the quilt. Humour her till it's 
over. You crossed her last wish in death and yet you sulk with me because I don't whinge like some 
hired mute from Lalouette's. Absurd! I suppose I did say it. I didn't mean to offend the memory of 
your mother. 

He had spoken himself into boldness. Stephen, shielding the gaping wounds which the words had 
left in his heart, said very coldly: 

— I am not thinking of the offence to my mother. 

— Of what then? Buck Mulgan asked. 

— Of the offence to me, Stephen answered. 

Buck Mulligan swung round on his heel 

— O, an impossible person! he exclaimed. 

He walked off quickly round the parapet. Stephen stood at his post, gazing over the calm sea 
towards the headland. Sea and headland now grew dim Pulses were beating in his eyes, veiling their 
sight, and he felt the fever of his cheeks. 

A voice within the tower called loudly: 

— Are you up there, Mulligan? 

— I'm coming, Buck Mulligan answered. 

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He turned towards Stephen and said: 

— Look at the sea. What does it care about offences? Chuck Loyola, Kinch, and come on down. 
The Sassenach wants his morning rashers. 

His head halted again for a moment at the top of the staircase, level with the roof 

— Don't mope over it all day, he said. I'm inconsequent. Give up the moody brooding. 

His head vanished but the drone of his descending voice boomed out of the stairhead: 

And no more turn aside and brood 

Upon love's bitter mystery 

For Fergus rules the brazen cars. 

Woodshadows floated silently by through the morning peace from the stairhead seaward where he 
gazed. Inshore and farther out the mirror of water whitened, spurned by lightshod hurrying feet. White 
breast of the dim sea. The twining stresses, two by two. A hand plucking the harpstrings, merging their 
twining chords. Wavewhite wedded words shimmering on the dim tide. 

A cloud began to cover the sun slowly, wholly, shadowing the bay in deeper green It lay beneath 
him, a bowl of bitter waters. Fergus' song: I sang it alone in the house, holding down the long dark 
chords. Her door was open: she wanted to hear my music. Silent with awe and pity I went to her 
bedside. She was crying in her wretched bed. For those words, Stephen: love's bitter mystery. 

Where now? 

Her secrets: old featherfans, tasselled dancecards, powdered with musk, a gaud of amber beads in 
her locked drawer. A birdcage hung in the sunny window of her house when she was a giri. She heard 
old Royce sing in the pantomime of Turko the Terrible and laughed with others when he sang: 

/ am the boy 
That can enjoy 
Invisibility. 

Phantasmal mirth, folded away: muskperfumed. 

And no more turn aside and brood. 

Folded away in the memory of nature with her toys. Memories beset his brooding brain. Her glass 
of water from the kitchen tap when she had approached the sacrament. A cored apple, filled with 
brown sugar, roasting for her at the hob on a dark autumn evening. Her shapely fingernails reddened 
by the blood of squashed lice from the children's shirts. 

In a dream, silently, she had come to him, her wasted body within its loose graveclothes giving off 
an odour of wax and rosewood, her breath bent over him with mute secret words, a faint odour of 
wetted ashes. 

Her glazing eyes, staring out of death, to shake and bend my souL On me alone. The ghostcandle to 
light her agony. Ghostly light on the tortured face. Her hoarse loud breath rattling in horror, while all 
prayed on their knees. Her eyes on me to strike me down. Liliata rutilantium te confessorum 
turma circumdet: iubilantium te virginum chorus excipiat. 

Ghoul! Chewer of corpses! 

No, mother! Let me be and let me live. 

— Kinch ahoy! 

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Buck Mulligan's voice sang from within the tower. It came nearer up the staircase, calling again. 
Stephen, still trembling at his soul's cry, heard warm running sunlight and in the air behind him friendly 
words. 

— Dedatus, come down, like a good mosey. Breakfast is ready. Haines is apologising for waking us 
last night. It's all right. 

— I'm coming, Stephen said, turning. 

— Do, for Jesus' sake, Buck Mulligan said. For my sake and for all our sakes. 

His head disappeared and reappeared. 

— I told him your symbol of Irish art. He says it's very clever. Touch him for a quid, will you? A 
guinea, I mean. 

— I get paid this morning, Stephen said. 

— The school kip? Buck Mulligan said. How much? Four quid? Lend us one. 

— If you want it, Stephen said. 

— Four shining sovereigns, Buck Mulligan cried with delight. We'll have a glorious drunk to astonish 
the druidy druids. Four omnipotent sovereigns. 

He flung up his hands and tramped down the stone stairs, singing out of tune with a Cockney 
accent: 

O, won't we have a merry time, 

Drinking whisky, beer and wine! 

On coronation, 

Coronation day! 

O, won't we have a merry time 

On coronation day! 

Warm sunshine merrying over the sea. The nickel shavingbowl shone, forgotten, on the parapet. 
Why should I bring it down? Or leave it there all day, forgotten friendship? 

He went over to it, held it in his hands awhile, feeling its coolness, smelling the clammy slaver of the 
lather in which the brush was stuck. So I carried the boat of incense then at Clongowes. I am another 
now and yet the same. A servant too. A server of a servant. 

In the gloomy domed livingroom of the tower Buck Mulligan's gowned form moved briskly to and 
fro about the hearth, hiding and revealing its yellow glow. Two shafts of soft daylight fell across the 
flagged floor from the high barbacans: and at the meeting of their rays a cloud of coalsmoke and fumes 
of fried grease floated, turning. 

— We'll be choked, Buck Mulligan said. Haines, open that door, will you? 

Stephen laid the shavingbowl on the locker. A tall figure rose from the hammock where it had been 
sitting, went to the doorway and pulled open the inner doors. 

— Have you the key? a voice asked. 

— Dedatus has it, Buck Mulligan said. Janey Mack, I'm choked! 

He howled, without looking up from the fire: 

— Kinch! 

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— It's in the lock, Stephen said, coming forward. 

The key scraped round harshly twice and, when the heavy door had been set ajar, welcome light 
and bright air entered. Haines stood at the doorway, looking out. Stephen haled his upended valise to 
the table and sat down to wait. Buck Mulligan tossed the fiy on to the dish beside him Then he 
carried the dish and a large teapot over to the table, set them down heavily and sighed with relief 

— I'm melting, he said, as the candle remarked when.. But, hush! Not a word more on that 
subject! Kinch, wake up! Bread, butter, honey. Haines, come in. The grub is ready. Bless us, O Lord, 
and these thy gifts. Where's the sugar? O, jay, there's no milk. 

Stephen fetched the loaf and the pot of honey and the buttercooler from the locker. Buck Mulligan 
sat down in a sudden pet. 

— What sort of a kip is this? he said. I told her to come after eight. 

— We can drink it black, Stephen said thirstily. There's a lemon in the locker. 

— O, damn you and your Paris fads! Buck Mulligan said. I want Sandycove milk. 

Haines came in from the doorway and said quietly: 

— That woman is coming up with the milk. 

— The blessings of God on you! Buck Mulligan cried, jumping up from his chair. Sit down. Pour 
out the tea there. The sugar is in the bag. Here, I can't go fumbling at the damned eggs. 

He hacked through the fry on the dish and slapped it out on three plates, saying: 

— In nomine Patris et Filii et Spiritus Sancti. 

Haines sat down to pour out the tea. 

— I'm giving you two Limps each, he said. But, I say, Mulligan, you do make strong tea, don't you? 

Buck Mulligan, hewing thick slices from the loaf, said in an old woman's wheedling voice: 

— When I makes tea I makes tea, as old mother Grogan said. And when I makes water I makes 
water. 

— By Jove, it is tea, Haines said. 

Buck Mulligan went on hewing and wheedling: 

— So I do, Mrs Cahill, says she. Begob, ma'am, says Mrs Cahill, God send you don't make 
them in the one pot. 

He lunged towards his messmates in turn a thick slice of bread, impaled on his knife. 

— That's folk, he said very earnestly, for your book, Haines. Five lines of text and ten pages of 
notes about the folk and the fishgods of Dundrum Printed by the weird sisters in the year of the big 
wind. 

He turned to Stephen and asked in a fine puzzled voice, lifting his brows: 

— Can you recall, brother, is mother Grogan's tea and water pot spoken of in the Mabinogion or is 
it in the Upanishads? 

— I doubt it, said Stephen gravely. 

— Do you now? Buck Mulligan said in the same tone. Your reasons, pray? 

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— I fancy, Stephen said as he ate, it did not exist in or out of the Mabinogion Mother Grogan was, 
one imagines, a kinswoman of Mary Ann. 

Buck Mulligan's face smiled with delight. 

— Charming! he said in a finical sweet voice, showing his white teeth and blinking his eyes 
pleasantry. Do you think she was? Quite charming! 

Then, suddenly overclouding all his features, he growled in a hoarsened rasping voice as he hewed 
again vigorously at the loaf: 

— For old Mary Ann 
She doesn't care a damn. 
But, hising up her petticoats... 

He crammed his mouth with fiy and munched and droned. 

The doorway was darkened by an entering form 

— The mik, sir! 

— Come in, ma'am, Mulgan said. Kinch, get the jug. 

An old woman came forward and stood by Stephen's elbow. 

— That's a lovely morning, sir, she said. Glory be to God. 

— To whom? Mulligan said, glancing at her. Ah, to be sure! 

Stephen reached back and took the milkjug from the locker. 

— The islanders, Mulligan said to Haines casually, speak frequently of the collector of prepuces. 

— How much, sir? asked the old woman. 

— A quart, Stephen said. 

He watched her pour into the measure and thence into the jug rich white milk, not hers. Old 
shrunken paps. She poured again a measureful and a tilry. Old and secret she had entered from a 
morning world, maybe a messenger. She praised the goodness of the milk, pouring it out. Crouching 
by a patient cow at daybreak in the lush field, a witch on her toadstool, her wrinkled fingers quick at 
the squirting dugs. They lowed about her whom they knew, dewsiky cattle. Silk of the kine and poor 
old woman, names given her in old times. A wandering crone, lowly form of an immortal serving her 
conqueror and her gay betrayer, their common cuckquean, a messenger from the secret morning. To 
serve or to upbraid, whether he could not tell: but scorned to beg her favour. 

— It is indeed, ma'am, Buck Mulligan said, pouring milk into their cups. 

— Taste it, sir, she said. 

He drank at her bidding. 

— If we could live on good food like that, he said to her somewhat loudly, we wouldn't have the 
country full of rotten teeth and rotten guts. Living in a bogswamp, eating cheap food and the streets 
paved with dust, horsedung and consumptives' spits. 

— Are you a medical student, sir? the old woman asked. 

— I am, ma'am, Buck Mulgan answered. 

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— Look at that now, she said. 

Stephen listened in scornful silence. She bows her old head to a voice that speaks to her loudly, her 
bonesetter, her medicineman: me she slights. To the voice that will shrive and oil for the grave all there 
is of her but her woman's unclean loins, of man's flesh made not in God's likeness, the serpent's prey. 
And to the loud voice that now bids her be silent with wondering unsteady eyes. 

— Do you understand what he says? Stephen asked her. 

— Is it French you are talking, sir? the old woman said to Haines. 

Haines spoke to her again a longer speech, confidently. 

— Irish Buck Mulligan said. Is there Gaelic on you? 

— I thought it was Irish, she said, by the sound of it. Are you from the west, sir? 

— I am an Englishman, Haines answered. 

— He's English Buck Mulligan said, and he thinks we ought to speak Irish in Ireland. 

— Sure we ought to, the old woman said, and I'm ashamed I don't speak the language myself I'm 
told it's a grand language by them that knows. 

— Grand is no name for it, said Buck Mulligan Wonderful entirely. Fill us out some more tea, 
Kinch Would you like a cup, ma'am? 

— No, thank you, sir, the old woman said, slipping the ring of the mikcan on her forearm and about 
to go. 

Haines said to her: 

— Have you your bill? We had better pay her, Mulgan, hadn't we? 

Stephen filled again the three cups. 

— Bill, sir? she said, halting. Well, it's seven mornings a pint at twopence is seven twos is a shilling 
and twopence over and these three mornings a quart at fourpence is three quarts is a shilling That's a 
shilling and one and two is two and two, sir. 

Buck Mulgan sighed and, having filled his mouth with a crust thickly buttered on both sides, 
stretched forth his legs and began to search his trouser pockets. 

— Pay up and look pleasant, Haines said to him, smiling. 

Stephen filled a third cup, a spoonful of tea colouring faintly the thick rich milk. Buck Mulligan 
brought up a florin, twisted it round in his fingers and cried: 

— A miracle! 

He passed it along the table towards the old woman, saying: 

— Ask nothing more of me, sweet. All I can give you I give. 

Stephen laid the coin in her uneager hand. 

— We'll owe twopence, he said. 

— Time enough, sir, she said, taking the coin. Time enough. Good morning, sir. 

She curtseyed and went out, followed by Buck Mulligan's tender chant: 

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— Heart of my heart, were it more, 
More would be laid at your feet. 

He turned to Stephen and said: 

— Seriously, Dedahis. I'm stony. Hurry out to your school kip and bring us back some money. 
Today the bards must drink and junket. Ireland expects that every man this day will do his duty. 

— That reminds me, Haines said, rising, that I have to visit your national library today. 

— Our swim first, Buck Mulgan said. 

He turned to Stephen and asked blandly: 

— Is this the day for your monthly wash, Kinch? 

Then he said to Haines: 

— The unclean bard makes a point of washing once a month. 

— All Ireland is washed by the gulfstream, Stephen said as he let honey trickle over a slice of the 
loaf 

Haines from the corner where he was knotting easily a scarf about the loose collar of his tennis shirt 
spoke: 

— I intend to make a collection of your sayings if you will let me. 

Speaking to me. They wash and tub and scrub. Agenbite of inwit. Conscience. Yet here's a spot. 

— That one about the cracked lookingglass of a servant being the symbol of Irish art is deuced 
good. 

Buck Mulligan kicked Stephen's foot under the table and said with warmth of tone: 

— Wait till you hear him on Hamlet, Haines. 

— Well, I mean it, Haines said, still speaking to Stephen. I was just thinking of it when that poor old 
creature came in. 

— Would I make any money by it? Stephen asked. 

Haines laughed and, as he took his soft grey hat from the holdfast of the hammock, said: 

— I don't know, I'm sure. 

He strolled out to the doorway. Buck Mulgan bent across to Stephen and said with coarse vigour: 

— You put your hoof in it now. What did you say that for? 

— Well? Stephen said. The problem is to get money. From whom? From the milkwoman or from 
him. It's a toss up, I think. 

— I blow him out about you, Buck Mulgan said, and then you come along with your lousy leer and 
your gloomy Jesuit jibes. 

— I see little hope, Stephen said, from her or from him 

Buck Mulgan sighed tragically and laid his hand on Stephen's arm 

— From me, Kinch, he said. 

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In a suddenly changed tone he added: 

— To tell you the God's truth I think you're right. Damn all else they are good for. Why don't you 
play them as I do? To hell with them all Let us get out of the kip. 

He stood up, grave fy ungirdled and disrobed himself of his gown, saying resignedly: 

— Mulligan is stripped of his garments. 

He emptied his pockets on to the table. 

— There's your snotrag, he said. 

And putting on his stiff collar and rebellious tie he spoke to them, chiding them, and to his dangling 
watchchain. His hands plunged and rummaged in his trunk while he called for a clean handkerchief 
God, we'll simply have to dress the character. I want puce gloves and green boots. Contradiction. Do 
I contradict myself? Very well then, I contradict myself Mercurial Malachi. A limp black missile flew 
out of his talking hands. 

— And there's your Latin quarter hat, he said. 

Stephen picked it up and put it on Haines called to them from the doorway: 

— Are you coming, you fellows? 

— I'm ready, Buck Mulligan answered, going towards the door. Come out, Kinch You have eaten 
all we left, I suppose. Resigned he passed out with grave words and gait, saying, wellnigh with sorrow: 

— And going forth he met Butterry. 

Stephen, taking his ashplant from its leaningplace, followed them out and, as they went down the 
ladder, pulled to the slow iron door and locked it. He put the huge key in his inner pocket. 

At the foot of the ladder Buck Mulligan asked: 

— Did you bring the key? 

— I have it, Stephen said, preceding them 

He walked on. Behind him he heard Buck Mulgan club with his heavy bathtowel the leader shoots 
of ferns or grasses. 

— Down, sir! How dare you, sir! 

Haines asked: 

— Do you pay rent for this tower? 

— Twelve quid, Buck Mulgan said. 

— To the secretary of state for war, Stephen added over his shoulder. 

They halted while Haines surveyed the tower and said at last: 

— Rather bleak in wintertime, I should say. Martello you call it? 

— Billy Pitt had them built, Buck Mulgan said, when the French were on the sea. But ours is the 
omphalos. 

— What is your idea of Hamlet? Haines asked Stephen. 

— No, no, Buck Mulgan shouted in pain. I'm not equal to Thomas Aquinas and the fifryfive 

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reasons he has made out to prop it up. Wait till I have a few pints in me first. 

He turned to Stephen, saying, as he pulled down neatly the peaks of his primrose waistcoat: 

— You couldn't manage it under three pints, Kinch, could you? 

— It has waited so long, Stephen said listlessly, it can wait longer. 

— You pique my curiosity, Haines said amiably. Is it some paradox? 

— Pooh! Buck Mulgan said. We have grown out of Wilde and paradoxes. It's quite simple. He 
proves by algebra that Hamlet's grandson is Shakespeare's grandfather and that he himself is the ghost 
of his own father. 

— What? Haines said, beginning to point at Stephen. He himself? 

Buck Mulligan slung his towel stolewise round his neck and, bending in loose laughter, said to 
Stephen's ear: 

— O, shade of Kinch the elder! Japhet in search of a father! 

— We're always tired in the morning, Stephen said to Haines. And it is rather long to tell 

Buck Mulligan, walking forward again, raised his hands. 

— The sacred pint alone can unbind the tongue of Dedalus, he said. 

— I mean to say, Haines explained to Stephen as they followed, this tower and these cliffs here 
remind me somehow of Elsinore. That beetles o'er his base into the sea, isn't it? 

Buck Mulligan turned suddenly for an instant towards Stephen but did not speak. In the bright silent 
instant Stephen saw his own image in cheap dusty mourning between their gay attires. 

— It's a wonderful tale, Haines said, bringing them to halt again. 

Eyes, pale as the sea the wind had freshened, paler, firm and prudent. The seas' ruler, he gazed 
southward over the bay, empty save for the smokeplume of the mailboat vague on the bright skyline 
and a sail tacking by the Muglins. 

— I read a theological interpretation of it somewhere, he said bemused. The Father and the Son 
idea. The Son striving to be atoned with the Father. 

Buck Mulligan at once put on a blithe broadly smiling face. He looked at them, his wellshaped 
mouth open happily, his eyes, from which he had suddenly withdrawn all shrewd sense, blinking with 
mad gaiety. He moved a doll's head to and fro, the brims of his Panama hat quivering, and began to 
chant in a quiet happy foolish voice: 

— I'm the queerest young fellow that ever you heard. 
My mother's a jew, my father's a bird. 
With Joseph the j oiner I cannot agree. 
So here's to disciples and Calvary. 

He held up a forefinger of warning. 

— If anyone thinks that I amn't divine 
He'll get no free drinks when I'm making the wine 
But have to drink water and wish it were plain 
That i make when the wine becomes water again. 

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He tugged swiftly at Stephen's ashplant in farewell and, running forward to a brow of the cliff, 
fluttered his hands at his sides like fins or wings of one about to rise in the air, and chanted: 

— Goodbye, now, goodbye! Write down all I said 
And tell Tom, Dick and Harry I rose from the dead. 
What's bred in the bone cannot fail me to fly 
And Olivet's breezy... Goodbye, now, goodbye! 

He capered before them down towards the fortyfoot hole, fluttering his winglike hands, leaping 
nimbly, Mercury's hat quivering in the fresh wind that bore back to them his brief birdsweet cries. 

Haines, who had been laughing guardedly, walked on beside Stephen and said: 

— We oughtn't to laugh, I suppose. He's rather blasphemous. I'm not a believer myself, that is to 
say. Still his gaiety takes the harm out of it somehow, doesn't it? What did he call it? Joseph the 
Joiner? 

— The ballad of joking Jesus, Stephen answered. 

— O, Haines said, you have heard it before? 

— Three times a day, after meals, Stephen said drily. 

— You're not a believer, are you? Haines asked. I mean, a believer in the narrow sense of the 
word. Creation from nothing and miracles and a personal God. 

— There's only one sense of the word, it seems to me, Stephen said. 

Haines stopped to take out a smooth silver case in which twinkled a green stone. He sprang it open 
with his thumb and offered it. 

— Thank you, Stephen said, taking a cigarette. 

Haines helped himself and snapped the case to. He put it back in his sidepocket and took from his 
waistcoatpocket a nickel tinderbox, sprang it open too, and, having lit his cigarette, held the flaming 
spunk towards Stephen in the shell of his hands. 

— Yes, of course, he said, as they went on again. Either you believe or you don't, isn't it? Personally 
I couldn't stomach that idea of a personal God. You don't stand for that, I suppose? 

— You behold in me, Stephen said with grim displeasure, a horrible example of free thought. 

He walked on, waiting to be spoken to, trailing his ashplant by his side. Its ferrule followed lightly 
on the path, squealing at his heels. My familiar, after me, calling, Steeeeeeeeeeeephen! A wavering line 
along the path. They will walk on it tonight, coming here in the dark. He wants that key. It is mine. I 
paid the rent. Now I eat his salt bread. Give him the key too. AIL He will ask for it. That was in his 

eyes. 

— After all, Haines began... 

Stephen turned and saw that the cold gaze which had measured him was not all unkind. 

— After all, I should think you are able to free yourself You are your own master, it seems to me. 

— I am a servant of two masters, Stephen said, an English and an Italian. 

— Italian? Haines said. 

A crazy queen, old and jealous. Kneel down before me. 

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— And a third, Stephen said, there is who wants me for odd jobs. 

— Italian? Haines said again. What do you mean? 

— The imperial British state, Stephen answered, his colour rising, and the holy Roman catholic and 
apostolic church. 

Haines detached from his underlip some fibres of tobacco before he spoke. 

— I can quite understand that, he said calmly. An Irishman must think like that, I daresay. We feel in 
England that we have treated you rather unfairly. It seems history is to blame. 

The proud potent titles clanged over Stephen's memory the triumph of their brazen bells: et unam 
sanctam catholicam et apostolicam ecclesiam: the slow growth and change of rite and dogma like 
his own rare thoughts, a chemistry of stars. Symbol of the apostles in the mass for pope Marcellus, the 
voices blended, singing alone loud in affirmation: and behind their chant the vigilant angel of the church 
militant disarmed and menaced her heresiarchs. A horde of heresies fleeing with mitres awry: Photius 
and the brood of mockers of whom Mulligan was one, and Arius, warring his life long upon the 
consubstantiality of the Son with the Father, and Valentine, spurning Christ's terrene body, and the 
subtle African heresiarch Sabelfros who held that the Father was Himself His own Son. Words 
Mulligan had spoken a moment since in mockery to the stranger. Idle mockery. The void awaits surely 
all them that weave the wind: a menace, a disarming and a worsting from those embattled angels of the 
church, Michael's host, who defend her ever in the hour of conflict with their lances and their shields. 

Hear, hear! Prolonged applause. ZutlNom de Dieu! 

— Of course I'm a Britisher, Haines's voice said, and I feel as one. I don't want to see my country 
fall into the hands of German jews either. That's our national problem, I'm afraid, just now. 

Two men stood at the verge of the cliff, watching: businessman, boatman. 

— She's making for Bullock harbour. 

The boatman nodded towards the north of the bay with some disdain 

— There's five fathoms out there, he said. It'll be swept up that way when the tide comes in about 
one. It's nine days today. 

The man that was drowned. A sail veering about the blank bay waiting for a swollen bundle to bob 
up, roll over to the sun a puffy face, saltwhite. Here I am 

They followed the winding path down to the creek. Buck Mulligan stood on a stone, in shirtsleeves, 
his unc lipped tie rippling over his shoulder. A young man clinging to a spur of rock near him, moved 
slowly frogwise his green legs in the deep jelly of the water. 

— Is the brother with you, Malachi? 

— Down in Westmeath. With the Bannons. 

— Still there? I got a card from Bannon. Says he found a sweet young thing down there. Photo girl 
he calls her. 

— Snapshot, eh? Brief exposure. 

Buck Mulligan sat down to unlace his boots. An elderly man shot up near the spur of rock a 
blowing red face. He scrambled up by the stones, water glistening on his pate and on its garland of 
grey hair, water rilling over his chest and paunch and spilling jets out of his black sagging loincloth. 

Buck Mulligan made way for him to scramble past and, glancing at Haines and Stephen, crossed 

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himself piously with his thumbnail at brow and lips and breastbone. 

— Seymour's back in town, the young man said, grasping again his spur of rock. Chucked medicine 
and going in for the army. 

— Ah, go to God! Buck Mulligan said. 

— Going over next week to stew. You know that red Carlisle girl, Lily? 

—Yes. 

— Spooning with him last night on the pier. The father is rotto with money. 

— Is she up the pole? 

— Better ask Seymour that. 

— Seymour a bleeding officer! Buck Mulligan said. 

He nodded to himself as he drew off his trousers and stood up, saying tritely: 

— Redheaded women buck like goats. 

He broke off in alarm, feeling his side under his flapping shirt. 

— My twelfth rib is gone, he cried. I'm the Uebermensch. Toothless Kinch and I, the supermen. 

He struggled out of his shirt and flung it behind him to where his clothes lay. 

— Are you going in here, Makchi? 

— Yes. Make room in the bed. 

The young man shoved himself backward through the water and reached the middle of the creek in 
two long clean strokes. Haines sat down on a stone, smoking. 

— Are you not coming in? Buck Mulligan asked. 

— Later on, Haines said. Not on my breakfast. 

Stephen turned away. 

— I'm going, Mulligan, he said. 

— Give us that key, Kinch, Buck Mulligan said, to keep my chemise flat. 

Stephen handed him the key. Buck Mulgan laid it across his heaped clothes. 

— And twopence, he said, for a pint. Throw it there. 

Stephen threw two pennies on the soft heap. Dressing, undressing. Buck Mulligan erect, with joined 
hands before him, said solemnly: 

— He who stealeth from the poor lendeth to the Lord. Thus spake Zarathustra. 

His plump body plunged. 

— We'll see you again, Haines said, turning as Stephen walked up the path and smiling at wild Irish. 

Horn of a bull, hoof of a horse, smile of a Saxon. 

— The Ship, Buck Mulgan cried. Half twelve. 

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— Good, Stephen said. 

He walked along the upwardcurving path 

Liliata rutilantium. 
Turma circumdet. 
Iubilantium te virginum. 

The priest's grey nimbus in a niche where he dressed discreetly. I will not sleep here tonight. Home 
also I cannot go. 

A voice, sweettoned and sustained, called to him from the sea. Turning the curve he waved his 
hand. It called again. A sleek brown head, a seal's, far out on the water, round. 

Usurper. 

— You, Cochrane, what city sent for him? 

— Tarentum, sir. 

—Very good. Well? 

— There was a battle, sir. 

— Very good. Where? 

The boy's blank face asked the blank window. 

Fabled by the daughters of memory. And yet it was in some way if not as memory fabled it. A 
phrase, then, of impatience, thud of Blake's wings of excess. I hear the ruin of all space, shattered 
glass and toppling masonry, and time one livid final flame. What's left us then? 

— I forget the place, sir. 279 B. C. 

— Asculum, Stephen said, glancing at the name and date in the gorescarred book. 

— Yes, sir. And he said: Another victory like that and we are done for. 

That phrase the world had remembered. A dull ease of the mind. From a hill above a corpsestrewn 
plain a general speaking to his officers, leaned upon his spear. Any general to any officers. They lend 
ear. 

— You, Armstrong, Stephen said. What was the end of Pyrrhus? 

— End of Pyrrhus, sir? 

— I know, sir. Ask me, sir, Comyn said. 

— Wait. You, Armstrong. Do you know anything about Pyrrhus? 

A bag of figrolls lay snugly in Armstrong's satchel. He curled them between his palms at whiles and 
swallowed them softly. Crumbs adhered to the tissue of his lips. A sweetened boy's breath. Welloff 
people, proud that their eldest son was in the navy. Vico road, Dalkey. 

— Pyrrhus, sir? Pyrrhus, a pier. 

All laughed. Mirthless high malicious laughter. Armstrong looked round at his classmates, silly glee 
in profile. In a moment they will laugh more loudly, aware of my lack of rule and of the fees their papas 
pay. 

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— Tel me now, Stephen said, poking the boy's shoulder with the book, what is a pier. 

— A pier, sir, Armstrong said. A thing out in the water. A kind of a bridge. Kingstown pier, sir. 

Some laughed again: mirthless but with meaning. Two in the back bench whispered. Yes. They 
knew: had never learned nor ever been innocent. AIL With envy he watched their faces: Edith Ethel, 
Gerty, Lily. Their likes: their breaths, too, sweetened with tea and jam, their bracelets tittering in the 
struggle. 

— Kingstown pier, Stephen said. Yes, a disappointed bridge. 

The words troubled their gaze. 

— How, sir? Comyn asked. A bridge is across a river. 

For Haines's chapbook. No-one here to hear. Tonight deftly amid wild drink and talk, to pierce the 
polished mail of his mind. What then? A jester at the court of his master, indulged and disesteemed, 
winning a clement master's praise. Why had they chosen all that part? Not wholly for the smooth 
caress. For them too history was a tale like any other too often heard, their land a pawnshop. 

Had Pyrrhus not fallen by a beldam's hand in Argos or Julius Caesar not been knifed to death. They 
are not to be thought away. Time has branded them and fettered they are lodged in the room of the 
infinite possibilities they have ousted. But can those have been possible seeing that they never were? 
Or was that only possible which came to pass? Weave, weaver of the wind. 

— Tell us a story, sir. 

— O, do, sir. A ghoststory. 

— Where do you begin in this? Stephen asked, opening another book. 

—Weep no more, Comyn said. 

— Go on then, Talbot. 

— And the story, sir? 

— After, Stephen said. Go on, Talbot. 

A swarthy boy opened a book and propped it nimbly under the breastwork of his satchel. He 
recited jerks of verse with odd glances at the text: 

— Weep no more, woful shepherds, weep no more 

For Lycidas, your sorrow, is not dead, 

Sunk though he be beneath the watery floor... 

It must be a movement then, an actuality of the possible as possible. Aristotle's phrase formed itself 
within the gabbled verses and floated out into the studious silence of the library of Saint Genevieve 
where he had read, sheltered from the sin of Paris, night by night. By his elbow a delicate Siamese 
conned a handbook of strategy. Fed and feeding brains about me: under glowlamps, impaled, with 
faintly beating feelers: and in my mind's darkness a sloth of the underworld, reluctant, shy of 
brightness, shifting her dragon scaly folds. Thought is the thought of thought. Tranquil brightness. The 
soul is in a manner all that is: the soul is the form of forms. Tranquility sudden, vast, candescent: form 
of forms. 

Talbot repeated: 

— Through the dear might of Him that walked the waves, 
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Through the dear might... 

— Turn over, Stephen said quietly. I don't see anything. 

— What, sir? Talbot asked simply, bending forward. 

His hand turned the page over. He leaned back and went on again, having just remembered. Of him 
that walked the waves. Here also over these craven hearts his shadow lies and on the scoffer's heart 
and lips and on mine. It lies upon their eager faces who offered him a coin of the tribute. To Caesar 
what is Caesar's, to God what is God's. A long look from dark eyes, a riddling sentence to be woven 
and woven on the church's looms. Ay. 

Riddle me, riddle me, randy ro. 
My father gave me seeds to sow. 

Talbot slid his closed book into his satchel. 

— Have I heard all? Stephen asked. 

— Yes, sir. Hockey at ten, sir. 

— Half day, sir. Thursday. 

— Who can answer a riddle? Stephen asked. 

They bundled their books away, pencils clacking, pages rustling. Crowding together they strapped 
and buckled their satchels, all gabbling gaily: 

— A riddle, sir? Ask me, sir. 

— O, ask me, sir. 

— A hard one, sir. 

— This is the riddle, Stephen said: 

The cock crew, 

The sky was blue: 

The bells in heaven 

Were striking eleven. 

'Tis time for this poor soul 

To go to heaven. 

What is that? 

—What, sir? 

— Again, sir. We didn't hear. 

Their eyes grew bigger as the lines were repeated. After a silence Cochrane said: 

— What is it, sir? We give it up. 

Stephen, his throat itching, answered: 

— The fox burying his grandmother under a holrybush 

He stood up and gave a shout of nervous laughter to which their cries echoed dismay. 

A stick struck the door and a voice in the corridor called: 

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— Hockey! 

They broke asunder, sidling out of their benches, leaping them. Quickly they were gone and from 
the Limberroom came the rattle of sticks and clamour of their boots and tongues. 

Sargent who alone had lingered came forward slowly, showing an open copybook. His thick hair 
and scraggy neck gave witness of unreadiness and through his misty glasses weak eyes looked up 
pleading. On his cheek, dull and bloodless, a soft stain of ink lay, dateshaped, recent and damp as a 
snail's bed. 

He held out his copybook. The word Sums was written on the headline. Beneath were sloping 
figures and at the foot a crooked signature with blind loops and a blot. Cyril Sargent: his name and 
seal. 

— Mr Deasy told me to write them out all again, he said, and show them to you, sir. 

Stephen touched the edges of the book. Futility. 

— Do you understand how to do them now? he asked. 

— Numbers eleven to fifteen, Sargent answered. Mr Deasy said I was to copy them off the board, 
sir. 

— Can you do them yourself? Stephen asked. 

— No, sir. 

Ugly and futile: lean neck and thick hair and a stain of ink, a snail's bed. Yet someone had loved 
him, borne him in her arms and in her heart. But for her the race of the world would have trampled him 
underfoot, a squashed boneless snail. She had loved his weak watery blood drained from her own. 
Was that then real? The only true thing in life? His mother's prostrate body the fiery CoLunbanus in 
holy zeal bestrode. She was no more: the trembling skeleton of a twig burnt in the fire, an odour of 
rosewood and wetted ashes. She had saved him from being trampled underfoot and had gone, 
scarcely having been A poor soul gone to heaven: and on a heath beneath winking stars a fox, red 
reek of rapine in his fur, with merciless bright eyes scraped in the earth listened, scraped up the earth, 
listened, scraped and scraped. 

Sitting at his side Stephen solved out the problem He proves by algebra that Shakespeare's ghost 
is Hamlet's grandfather. Sargent peered askance through his slanted glasses. Hockeysticks rattled in 
the Limberroom: the hollow knock of a ball and calls from the field. 

Across the page the symbols moved in grave morrice, in the mummery of their letters, wearing 
quaint caps of squares and cubes. Give hands, traverse, bow to partner: so: imps of fancy of the 
Moors. Gone too from the world, Averroes and Moses Maimonides, dark men in mien and 
movement, flashing in their mocking mirrors the obscure soul of the world, a darkness shining in 
brightness which brightness could not comprehend. 

— Do you understand now? Can you work the second for yourself? 

— Yes, sir. 

In long shaky strokes Sargent copied the data. Waiting always for a word of help his hand moved 
faithfully the unsteady symbols, a faint hue of shame flickering behind his dull skin. Amor matris: 
subjective and objective genitive. With her weak blood and wheysour milk she had fed him and hid 
from sight of others his swaddling bands. 

Like him was I, these sloping shoulders, this gracelessness. My childhood bends beside me. Too far 
for me to lay a hand there once or lightly. Mine is far and his secret as our eyes. Secrets, silent, stony 

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sit in the dark palaces of both our hearts: secrets weary of their tyranny: tyrants, willing to be 
dethroned. 

The sum was done. 

— It is very simple, Stephen said as he stood up. 

— Yes, sir. Thanks, Sargent answered. 

He dried the page with a sheet of thin blottingpaper and carried his copybook back to his bench 

— You had better get your stick and go out to the others, Stephen said as he followed towards the 
door the boy's graceless form 

— Yes, sir. 

In the corridor his name was heard, called from the playfreld. 

— Sargent! 

— Run on, Stephen said. Mr Deasy is calling you. 

He stood in the porch and watched the laggard hurry towards the scrappy field where sharp voices 
were in strife. They were sorted in teams and Mr Deasy came away stepping over wisps of grass with 
gaitered feet. When he had reached the schoolhouse voices again contending called to him He turned 
his angry white moustache. 

— What is it now? he cried continually without listening. 

— Cochrane and Halday are on the same side, sir, Stephen said. 

— Will you wait in my study for a moment, Mr Deasy said, till I restore order here. 

And as he stepped fussily back across the field his old man's voice cried sternly: 

— What is the matter? What is it now? 

Their sharp voices cried about him on all sides: their many forms closed round him, the garish 
sunshine bleaching the honey of his illdyed head. 

Stale smoky air hung in the study with the smell of drab abraded leather of its chairs. As on the first 
day he bargained with me here. As it was in the beginning, is now. On the sideboard the tray of Stuart 
coins, base treasure of a bog: and ever shall be. And snug in their spooncase of purple plush faded, 
the twelve apostles having preached to all the gentiles: world without end. 

A hasty step over the stone porch and in the corridor. Blowing out his rare moustache Mr Deasy 
halted at the table. 

— First, our little financial settlement, he said. 

He brought out of his coat a pocketbook bound by a leather thong. It slapped open and he took 
from it two notes, one of joined halves, and laid them carefully on the table. 

— Two, he said, strapping and stowing his pocketbook away. 

And now his strongroom for the gold. Stephen's embarrassed hand moved over the shells heaped in 
the cold stone mortar: whelks and money cowries and leopard shells: and this, whorled as an emir's 
turban, and this, the scallop of saint James. An old pilgrim's hoard, dead treasure, hollow shells. 

A sovereign fell, bright and new, on the soft pile of the tablecloth 

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— Three, Mr Deasy said, turning his little savingsbox about in his hand. These are handy things to 
have. See. This is for sovereigns. This is for shillings. Sixpences, halfcrowns. And here crowns. See. 

He shot from it two crowns and two shillings. 

— Three twelve, he said. I think you'll find that's right. 

— Thank you, sir, Stephen said, gathering the money together with shy haste and putting it all in a 
pocket of his trousers. 

— No thanks at all, Mr Deasy said. You have earned it. 

Stephen's hand, free again, went back to the hollow shells. Symbols too of beauty and of power. A 
lump in my pocket: symbols soiled by greed and misery. 

— Don't carry it like that, Mr Deasy said. You'll pull it out somewhere and lose it. You just buy one 
of these machines. You'll find them very handy. 

Answer something. 

— Mine would be often empty, Stephen said. 

The same room and hour, the same wisdom: and I the same. Three times now. Three nooses round 
me here. Well? I can break them in this instant if I will 

— Because you don't save, Mr Deasy said, pointing his finger. You don't know yet what money is. 
Money is power. When you have lived as long as I have. I know, I know. If youth but knew. But 
what does Shakespeare say? Put but money in thy purse. 

— Iago, Stephen murmured. 

He lifted his gaze from the idle shells to the old maris stare. 

— He knew what money was, Mr Deasy said. He made money. A poet, yes, but an Englishman 
too. Do you know what is the pride of the English? Do you know what is the proudest word you will 
ever hear from an Englishman's mouth? 

The seas' ruler. His seacold eyes looked on the empty bay: it seems history is to blame: on me and 
on my words, unhating 

— That on his empire, Stephen said, the sun never sets. 

— Ba! Mr Deasy cried. That's not English. A French Celt said that. He tapped his savingsbox 
against his thumbnail 

— I will tell you, he said solemnly, what is his proudest boast. I paid my way. 

Good man, good man 

— I paid my way. I never borrowed a shilling in my life. Can you feel that? / owe nothing. Can 
you? 

Mulgan, nine pounds, three pairs of socks, one pair brogues, ties. Curran, ten guineas. McCann, 
one guinea. Fred Ryan, two shillings. Temple, two lunches. Russell, one guinea, Cousins, ten shillings, 
Bob Reynolds, half a guinea, Koehler, three guineas, Mrs MacKernan, five weeks' board. The lump I 
have is useless. 

— For the moment, no, Stephen answered. 

Mr Deasy laughed with rich delight, putting back his savingsbox. 

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— I knew you couldn't, he said joyously. But one day you must feel it. We are a generous people 
but we must also be just. 

— I fear those big words, Stephen said, which make us so unhappy. 

Mr Deasy stared sternly for some moments over the mantelpiece at the shapely bulk of a man in 
tartan filibegs: Albert Edward, prince of Wales. 

— You think me an old fogey and an old tory, his thoughtful voice said. I saw three generations 
since O'Connell's time. I remember the famine in '46. Do you know that the orange lodges agitated for 
repeal of the union twenty years before O'Connell did or before the prelates of your communion 
denounced him as a demagogue? You fenians forget some things. 

Glorious, pious and immortal memory. The lodge of Diamond in Armagh the splendid behung with 
corpses of papishes. Hoarse, masked and armed, the planters' covenant. The black north and true 
blue bible. Croppies lie down. 

Stephen sketched a brief gesture. 

— I have rebel blood in me too, Mr Deasy said. On the spindle side. But I am descended from sir 
John Blackwood who voted for the union. We are all Irish, all kings' sons. 

— Alas, Stephen said. 

— Per vias rectas, Mr Deasy said firmly, was his motto. He voted for it and put on his topboots to 
ride to Dublin from the Ards of Down to do so. 

Lai the ral the ra 

The rocky road to Dublin. 

A gruff squire on horseback with shiny topboots. Soft day, sir John! Soft day, your honour!... 
Day! . . . Day! . . . Two topboots jog dangling on to Dublin Lai the ral the ra. Lai the ral the raddy. 

— That reminds me, Mr Deasy said. You can do me a favour, Mr Dedafus, with some of your 
literary friends. I have a letter here for the press. Sit down a moment. I have just to copy the end. 

He went to the desk near the window, pulled in his chair twice and read off some words from the 
sheet on the drum of his typewriter. 

— Sit down. Excuse me, he said over his shoulder, the dictates of common sense. Just a moment. 

He peered from under his shaggy brows at the manuscript by his elbow and, muttering, began to 
prod the stiff buttons of the keyboard slowly, sometimes blowing as he screwed up the drum to erase 
an error. 

Stephen seated himself noiselessly before the princely presence. Framed around the walls images of 
vanished horses stood in homage, their meek heads poised in air: lord Hastings' Repulse, the duke of 
Westminster's Shotover, the duke of Beaufort's Ceylon, prix de Paris, 1866. Elfin riders sat them, 
watchful of a sign. He saw their speeds, backing king's colours, and shouted with the shouts of 
vanished crowds. 

— Full stop, Mr Deasy bade his keys. But prompt ventilation of this allimportant question.. 

Where Cranry led me to get rich quick, hunting his winners among the mudsplashed brakes, amid 
the bawls of bookies on their pitches and reek of the canteen, over the motley slush Fair Rebel! Fair 
Rebel! Even money the favourite: ten to one the field. Dicers and thimbleriggers we hurried by after the 
hoofs, the vying caps and jackets and past the meatfaced woman, a butcher's dame, nuzzling thirstily 
her clove of orange. 

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Shouts rang shrill from the boys' playfield and a whirring whistle. 

Again: a goal. I am among them, among their battling bodies in a medley, the joust of life. You mean 
that knockkneed mother's darling who seems to be slightly crawsick? Jousts. Time shocked rebounds, 
shock by shock. Jousts, slush and uproar of battles, the frozen deathspew of the slain, a shout of 
spearspikes baited with men's bloodied guts. 

— Now then, Mr Deasy said, rising. 

He came to the table, pinning together his sheets. Stephen stood up. 

— I have put the matter into a nutshell, Mr Deasy said. It's about the foot and mouth disease. Just 
look through it. There can be no two opinions on the matter. 

May I trespass on your valuable space. That doctrine of laissez faire which so often in our history. 
Our cattle trade. The way of all our old industries. Liverpool ring which jockeyed the Gahvay harbour 
scheme. European conflagration. Grain supplies through the narrow waters of the channel. The 
phiterperfect imperturbability of the department of agriculture. Pardoned a classical allusion. 
Cassandra. By a woman who was no better than she should be. To come to the point at issue. 



-I don't mince words, do I? Mr Deasy asked as Stephen read on. 



Foot and mouth disease. Known as Koch's preparation. Serum and virus. Percentage of salted 
horses. Rinderpest. Emperor's horses at Murzsteg, lower Austria. Veterinary surgeons. Mr Henry 
Blackwood Price. Courteous offer a fair trial. Dictates of common sense. Allimportant question In 
every sense of the word take the bull by the horns. Thanking you for the hospitality of your columns. 

— I want that to be printed and read, Mr Deasy said. You will see at the next outbreak they will put 
an embargo on Irish cattle. And it can be cured. It is cured. My cousin, Blackwood Price, writes to 
me it is regularly treated and cured in Austria by cattledoctors there. They offer to come over here. I 
am trying to work up influence with the department. Now I'm going to try publicity. I am surrounded 
by difficulties, by... intrigues by... backstairs influence by... 

He raised his forefinger and beat the air oldfy before his voice spoke. 

— Mark my words, Mr Dedahis, he said. England is in the hands of the jews. In all the highest 
places: her finance, her press. And they are the signs of a nation's decay. Wherever they gather they 
eat up the nation's vital strength. I have seen it coming these years. As sure as we are standing here the 
jew merchants are already at their work of destruction. Old England is dying. 

He stepped swiftly off, his eyes coming to blue life as they passed a broad sunbeam He faced 
about and back again. 

— Dying, he said again, if not dead by now. 

The harlot's cry from street to street 
Shall weave old England's windingsheet. 

His eyes open wide in vision stared sternly across the sunbeam in which he halted. 

— A merchant, Stephen said, is one who buys cheap and sells dear, jew or gentile, is he not? 

— They sinned against the light, Mr Deasy said gravely. And you can see the darkness in their eyes. 
And that is why they are wanderers on the earth to this day. 

On the steps of the Paris stock exchange the goldskinned men quoting prices on their gemmed 
fingers. Gabble of geese. They swarmed loud, uncouth about the temple, their heads thickplotting 
under maladroit silk hats. Not theirs: these clothes, this speech, these gestures. Their full slow eyes 

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belied the words, the gestures eager and unoffending, but knew the rancours massed about them and 
knew their zeal was vain Vain patience to heap and hoard. Time surely would scatter all A hoard 
heaped by the roadside: plundered and passing on. Their eyes knew their years of wandering and, 
patient, knew the dishonours of their flesh 

— Who has not? Stephen said. 

— What do you mean? Mr Deasy asked. 

He came forward a pace and stood by the table. His underjaw fell sideways open uncertainly. Is 
this old wisdom? He waits to hear from me. 

— History, Stephen said, is a nightmare from which I am trying to awake. 

From the playfield the boys raised a shout. A whirring whistle: goal. What if that nightmare gave you 
a back kick? 

— The ways of the Creator are not our ways, Mr Deasy said. All human history moves towards 
one great goal, the manifestation of God. 

Stephen jerked his thumb towards the window, saying: 

— That is God. 

Hooray! Ay! Whrrwhee! 

— What? Mr Deasy asked. 

— A shout in the street, Stephen answered, shrugging his shoulders. 

Mr Deasy looked down and held for awhile the wings of his nose tweaked between his fingers. 
Looking up again he set them free. 

— I am happier than you are, he said. We have committed many errors and many sins. A woman 
brought sin into the world. For a woman who was no better than she should be, Helen, the runaway 
wife of Menelaus, ten years the Greeks made war on Troy. A faithless wife first brought the strangers 
to our shore here, MacMurrough's wife and her leman, O'Rourke, prince of Breffni A woman too 
brought Parnell low. Many errors, many failures but not the one sin. I am a straggler now at the end of 
my days. But I will fight for the right till the end. 

For Ulster will fight 
And Ulster will be right. 

Stephen raised the sheets in his hand. 

— Well, sir, he began... 

— I foresee, Mr Deasy said, that you will not remain here very long at this work. You were not 
born to be a teacher, I think. Perhaps I am wrong 

— A learner rather, Stephen said. 

And here what will you learn more? 

Mr Deasy shook his head. 

— Who knows? he said. To learn one must be humble. But life is the great teacher. 

Stephen rustled the sheets again. 

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— As regards these, he began. 

— Yes, Mr Deasy said. You have two copies there. If you can have them published at once. 

Telegraph. Irish Homestead. 

— I will try, Stephen said, and let you know tomorrow. I know two editors slightly. 

— That will do, Mr Deasy said briskly. I wrote last night to Mr Field, M.P. There is a meeting of 
the cattletraders' association today at the City Arms hotel. I asked him to lay my letter before the 
meeting. You see if you can get it into your two papers. What are they? 

— The Evening Telegraph... 

— That will do, Mr Deasy said. There is no time to lose. Now I have to answer that letter from my 
cousin. 

— Good morning, sir, Stephen said, putting the sheets in his pocket. Thank you. 

— Not at all, Mr Deasy said as he searched the papers on his desk. I like to break a lance with 
you, old as I am 

— Good morning, sir, Stephen said again, bowing to his bent back. 

He went out by the open porch and down the gravel path under the trees, hearing the cries of 
voices and crack of sticks from the playfreld. The lions couchant on the pillars as he passed out 
through the gate: toothless terrors. Still I will help him in his fight. Mulgan will dub me a new name: the 
bullockbefriending bard. 

— Mr Dedahis! 

Running after me. No more letters, I hope. 

— Just one moment. 

— Yes, sir, Stephen said, turning back at the gate. 

Mr Deasy halted, breathing hard and swallowing his breath. 

— I just wanted to say, he said. Ireland, they say, has the honour of being the only country which 
never persecuted the jews. Do you know that? No. And do you know why? 

He frowned sternly on the bright air. 

— Why, sir? Stephen asked, beginning to smile. 

— Because she never let them in, Mr Deasy said solemnly. 

A coughball of laughter leaped from his throat dragging after it a rattling chain of phlegm He turned 
back quickly, coughing, laughing, his lifted arms waving to the air. 

— She never let them in, he cried again through his laughter as he stamped on gaitered feet over the 
gravel of the path That's why. 

On his wise shoulders through the checkerwork of leaves the sun flung spangles, dancing coins. 

Ineluctable modality of the visible: at least that if no more, thought through my eyes. Signatures of all 
things I am here to read, seaspawn and seawrack, the nearing tide, that rusty boot. Snotgreen, 
bluesilver, rust: coloured signs. Limits of the diaphane. But he adds: in bodies. Then he was aware of 
them bodies before of them coloured. How? By knocking his sconce against them, sure. Go easy. 

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Bald he was and a millionaire, maestro di color che sanno. Limit of the diaphane in. Why in? 
Diaphane, adiaphane. If you can put your five fingers through it it is a gate, if not a door. Shut your 
eyes and see. 

Stephen closed his eyes to hear his boots crush crackling wrack and shells. You are walking 
through it howsomever. I am, a stride at a time. A very short space of time through very short times of 
space. Five, six: the nacheinander. Exactly: and that is the ineluctable modality of the audible. Open 
your eyes. No. Jesus! If I fell over a cliff that beetles o'er his base, fell through the nebeneinander 
inekictabry! I am getting on nicely in the dark. My ash sword hangs at my side. Tap with it: they do. 
My two feet in his boots are at the ends of his legs, nebeneinander. Sounds solid: made by the mallet 
of Los Demiurgos, Am I walking into eternity along Sandymount strand? Crush, crack, crick, crick. 
Wild sea money. Dominie Deasy kens them a'. Won't you come to Sandymount, Madeline the mare? 

Rhythm begins, you see. I hear. Acatalectic tetrameter of iambs inarching. No, agallop: deline the 
mare. 

Open your eyes now. I will One moment. Has all vanished since? If I open and am for ever in the 
black adiaphane. Bastal I will see if I can see. 

See now. There all the time without you: and ever shall be, world without end. 

They came down the steps from Leahy's terrace prudently, Frauenzimmer. and down the shelving 
shore flabbily, their splayed feet sinking in the silted sand. Like me, like Algy, coming down to our 
mighty mother. Number one swung lourdiry her midwife's bag, the other's gamp poked in the beach. 
From the liberties, out for the day. Mrs Florence MacCabe, relict of the late Patk MacCabe, deeply 
lamented, of Bride Street. One of her sisterhood lugged me squealing into life. Creation from nothing. 
What has she in the bag? A misbirth with a trailing navelcord, hushed in ruddy wooL The cords of all 
link back, strandentwining cable of all flesh That is why mystic monks. Will you be as gods? Gaze in 
your omphalos. Hello! Kinch here. Put me on to Edenville. Aleph, alpha: nought, nought, one. 

Spouse and helpmate of Adam Kadmon: Heva, naked Eve. She had no naveL Gaze. Belly without 
blemish, bulging big, a buckler of taut vellum, no, whiteheaped corn, orient and immortal, standing 
from everlasting to everlasting. Womb of sin 

Wombed in sin darkness I was too, made not begotten By them, the man with my voice and my 
eyes and a ghostwoman with ashes on her breath. They clasped and sundered, did the coupler's will 
From before the ages He willed me and now may not will me away or ever. A lex eterna stays about 
Him Is that then the divine substance wherein Father and Son are consubstantial? Where is poor dear 
Arius to try conclusions? Warring his life long upon the contransmagnificandjewbangtantiality. Illstarred 
heresiarch In a Greek watercloset he breathed his last: euthanasia. With beaded mitre and with 
crozier, stalled upon his throne, widower of a widowed see, with upstiffed omophorion, with clotted 
hinderparts. 

Airs romped round him, nipping and eager airs. They are coming, waves. The whitemaned 
seahorses, champing, brightwindbridled, the steeds of Mananaan. 

I mustn't forget his letter for the press. And after? The Ship, half twelve. By the way go easy with 
that money like a good young imbecile. 

Yes, I must. 

His pace slackened. Here. Am I going to aunt Sara's or not? My consubstantial father's voice. Did 
you see anything of your artist brother Stephen lately? No? Sure he's not down in Strasburg terrace 
with his aunt Salty? Couldn't he fly a bit higher than that, eh? And and and and tell us, Stephen, how is 
uncle Si? O, weeping God, the things I married into! De boys up in de hayloft. The drunken little 
costdrawer and his brother, the comet player. Highly respectable gondoliers! And skeweyed Walter 

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sirring his father, no less! Sir. Yes, sir. No, sir. Jesus wept: and no wonder, by Christ! 

I pull the wheezy bell of their shuttered cottage: and wait. They take me for a dun, peer out from a 
coign of vantage. 

— It's Stephen, sir. 

— Let him in. Let Stephen in. 

A bolt drawn back and Walter welcomes me. 

— We thought you were someone else. 

In his broad bed nuncle Richie, pillowed and blanketed, extends over the hillock of his knees a 
sturdy forearm Cleanchested. He has washed the upper moiety. 

— Morrow, nephew. 

He lays aside the lapboard whereon he drafts his bills of costs for the eyes of master Goff and 
master Shapknd Tandy, filing consents and common searches and a writ of Duces Tecum. A bogoak 
frame over his bald head: Wilde's Requiescat, The drone of his misleading whistle brings Walter back. 

— Yes, sir? 

— Malt for Richie and Stephen, tell mother. Where is she? 

— Bathing Crissie, sir. 

Papa's little bedpaL Lump of love. 

— No, uncle Richie... 

— Call me Richie. Damn your lithia water. It lowers. Whusky! 

— Uncle Richie, realty... 

— Sit down or by the law Harry I'll knock you down 

Walter squints vainly for a chair. 

— He has nothing to sit down on, sir. 

— He has nowhere to put it, you mug. Bring in our chippendale chair. Would you like a bite of 
something? None of your damned lawdeedaw airs here. The rich of a rasher fried with a herring? 
Sure? So much the better. We have nothing in the house but backache pills. 

All'ertal 

He drones bars of Ferrando's aria disortita. The grandest number, Stephen, in the whole opera. 
Listen. 

His tuneful whistle sounds again, finely shaded, with rushes of the air, his fists bigdrumming on his 
padded knees. 

This wind is sweeter. 

Houses of decay, mine, his and all. You told the Clongowes gentry you had an uncle a judge and an 
uncle a general in the army. Come out of them, Stephen. Beauty is not there. Nor in the stagnant bay 
of Marsh's library where you read the fading prophecies of Joachim Abbas. For whom? The 
hundredheaded rabble of the cathedral close. A hater of his kind ran from them to the wood of 
madness, his mane foaming in the moon, his eyeballs stars. Houyhnhnm, horsenostrilled. The oval 

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equine feces, Temple, Buck Mulligan, Foxy Campbell, Lanternjaws. Abbas father, — furious dean, 
what offence laid fire to their brains? PafF! Descende, calve, ut ne amplius decalveris, A garland of 
grey hair on his comminated head see him me clambering down to the footpace (descended.), clutching 
a monstrance, basiliskeyed. Get down, baldpoll! A choir gives back menace and echo, assisting about 
the altar's horns, the snorted Latin of jackpriests moving burly in their albs, tonsured and oiled and 
gelded, fat with the fet of kidneys of wheat. 

And at the same instant perhaps a priest round the corner is elevating it. Dringdring! And two 
streets off another locking it into a pyx. Dringadring! And in a ladychapel another taking housel all to 
his own cheek. Dringdring! Down, up, forward, back. Dan Occam thought of that, invincible doctor. 
A misty English morning the imp hypostasis tickled his brain. Bringing his host down and kneeling he 
heard twine with his second bell the first bell in the transept (he is lifting his) and, rising, heard (now I 
am lifting) their two bells (he is kneeling) twang in diphthong. 

Cousin Stephen, you will never be a saint. Isle of saints. You were awfully holy, weren't you? You 
prayed to the Blessed Virgin that you might not have a red nose. You prayed to the devil in Serpentine 
avenue that the fubsy widow in front might lift her clothes still more from the wet street. O si, certol 
Sell your soul for that, do, dyed rags pinned round a squaw. More tell me, more still!! On the top of 
the Howth tram alone crying to the rain: Naked women! naked women] What about that, eh? 

What about what? What else were they invented for? 

Reading two pages apiece of seven books every night, eh? I was young. You bowed to yourself in 
the mirror, stepping forward to applause earnestly, striking face. Hurray for the Goddamned idiot! 
Hray! No-one saw: tell no-one. Books you were going to write with letters for titles. Have you read 
his F? O yes, but I prefer Q. Yes, but W is wonderful. O yes, W. Remember your epiphanies written 
on green oval leaves, deeply deep, copies to be sent if you died to all the great libraries of the world, 
including Alexandria? Someone was to read them there after a few thousand years, a 
mahamanvantara. Pico della Mirandola like. Ay, very like a whale. When one reads these strange 
pages of one long gone one feels that one is at one with one who once... 

The grainy sand had gone from under his feet. His boots trod again a damp crackling mast, 
razorshells, squeaking pebbles, that on the unnumbered pebbles beats, wood sieved by the shipworm, 
lost Armada. Unwholesome sandflats waited to suck his treading soles, breathing upward sewage 
breath, a pocket of seaweed smouldered in seafire under a midden of man's ashes. He coasted them, 
walking warily. A porterbottle stood up, stogged to its waist, in the cakey sand dough A sentinel: isle 
of dreadful thirst. Broken hoops on the shore; at the land a maze of dark cunning nets; farther away 
chalkscrawled backdoors and on the higher beach a dryingline with two crucified shirts. Ringsend: 
wigwams of brown steersmen and master mariners. Human shells. 

He halted. I have passed the way to aunt Sara's. Am I not going there? Seems not. No-one about. 
He turned northeast and crossed the firmer sand towards the Pigeonhouse. 

— Qui vous a mis dans cette fichue position? 

— c'est le pigeon, Joseph. 

Patrice, home on furlough, lapped warm milk with me in the bar MacMahon Son of the wild 
goose, Kevin Egan of Paris. My father's a bird, he lapped the sweet lait chaud with pink young 
tongue, plump bunny's face. Lap, lapin. He hopes to win in the gros lots. About the nature of women 
he read in Michelet. But he must send me La Vie de Jesus by M. Leo Taxi Lent it to his friend. 

— C'est tordant, vous savez. Moi, je suis socialiste. Je ne crois pas en Vexistence de Dieu. 
Fautpas le dire a monp-re. 

— II croit? 

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— Monpere, oui. 

Schluss. He laps. 

My Latin quarter hat. God, we simply must dress the character. I want puce gloves. You were a 
student, weren't you? Of what in the other devil's name? Paysayenn. P. C. N., you know: physiques, 
chimiques et naturelles. Aha. Eating your groatsworth of mow en civet, fleshpots of Egypt, elbowed 
by belching cabmen Just say in the most natural tone: when I was in Paris; boul' Mich', I used to. 
Yes, used to carry punched tickets to prove an alibi if they arrested you for murder somewhere. 
Justice. On the night of the seventeenth of February 1904 the prisoner was seen by two witnesses. 
Other fellow did it: other me. Hat, tie, overcoat, nose. Lui, c'est moi. You seem to have enjoyed 
yourself 

Proudly walking. Whom were you trying to walk like? Forget: a dispossessed. With mother's 
money order, eight shillings, the banging door of the post office slammed in your face by the usher. 
Hunger toothache. Encore deux minutes. Look clock. Must get. Ferme. Hired dog! Shoot him to 
bloody bits with a bang shotgun, bits man spattered walls all brass buttons. Bits all khrrrrklak in place 
clack back. Not hurt? O, that's all right. Shake hands. See what I meant, see? O, that's all right. 
Shake a shake. O, that's all only all right. 

You were going to do wonders, what? Missionary to Europe after fiery CoLimbanus. Fiacre and 
Scotus on their creepystools in heaven spilt from their pintpots, loudktinkughing: Euge! Eugel 
Pretending to speak broken English as you dragged your valise, porter threepence, across the slimy 
pier at Newhaven. Comment? Rich booty you brought back; Le Tutu, five tattered numbers of 
Pantalon Blanc et Culotte Rouge; a blue French telegram, curiosity to show: 

— Mother dying come home father. 

The aunt thinks you killed your mother. That's why she won't. 

Then here's a health to Mulligan's aunt 
And I'll tell you the reason why. 
She always kept things decent in 
The Hannigan famileye. 

His feet marched in sudden proud rhythm over the sand furrows, along by the boulders of the south 
wall He stared at them proudly, piled stone mammoth skulls. Gold light on sea, on sand, on boulders. 
The sun is there, the slender trees, the lemon houses. 

Paris rawly waking, crude sunlight on her lemon streets. Moist pith of farls of bread, the froggreen 
wormwood, her matin incense, court the air. Belluomo rises from the bed of his wife's lover's wife, the 
kerchiefed housewife is astir, a saucer of acetic acid in her hand. In Rodot's Yvonne and Madeleine 
newmake their tumbled beauties, shattering with gold teeth chaussons of pastry, their mouths 
yellowed with the pus of flan breton. Faces of Paris men go by, their wellpleased pleasers, curled 
conquistadores. 

Noon slumbers. Kevin Egan rolls gunpowder cigarettes through fingers smeared with printer's ink, 
sipping his green fairy as Patrice his white. About us gobblers fork spiced beans down their gullets. 
Un demi setier! A jet of coffee steam from the burnished caldron She serves me at his beck. // est 
irlandais. Hollandais? Non fromage. Deux irlandais, nous, Irlande, vous savez ah, oui! She 
thought you wanted a cheese hollandais. Your postprandial, do you know that word? Postprandial. 
There was a fellow I knew once in Barcelona, queer fellow, used to call it his postprandial. Well: 
slaintel Around the slabbed tables the tangle of wined breaths and grumbling gorges. His breath hangs 
over our saucestained plates, the green fairy's fang thrusting between his lips. Of Ireland, the 
Dalcassians, of hopes, conspiracies, of Arthur Griffith now, A E, pimander, good shepherd of men To 

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yoke me as his yokefellow, our crimes our common cause. You're your father's soa I know the voice. 
His fustian shirt, sanguineflowered, trembles its Spanish tassels at his secrets. M. Drumont, famous 
journalist, Drumont, know what he called queen Victoria? Old hag with the yellow teeth. Vieille 
ogresse with the dents jaunes. Maud Gonne, beautiful woman, La Patrie, M. Millevoye, Felix 
Faure, know how he died? Licentious men. The froeken, bonne a tout faire, who rubs male 
nakedness in the bath at Upsala. Moi faire, she said, Tous les messieurs. Not this Monsieur, I said. 
Most licentious custom Bath a most private thing. I wouldn't let my brother, not even my own brother, 
most lascivious thing. Green eyes, I see you. Fang, I feel. Lascivious people. 

The blue fuse burns deadly between hands and burns clear. Loose tobaccoshreds catch fire: a flame 
and acrid smoke light our corner. Raw facebones under his peep of day boy's hat. How the head 
centre got away, authentic version. Got up as a young bride, man, veil, orangeblossoms, drove out the 
road to Malahide. Did, faith. Of lost leaders, the betrayed, wild escapes. Disguises, clutched at, gone, 
not here. 

Spurned lover. I was a strapping young gossoon at that time, I tell you. I'll show you my likeness 
one day. I was, faith. Lover, for her love he prowled with colonel Richard Burke, tanist of his sept, 
under the walls of Clerkenwell and, crouching, saw a flame of vengeance hurl them upward in the fog. 
Shattered glass and toppling masonry. In gay Paree he hides, Egan of Paris, unsought by any save by 
me. Making his day's stations, the dingy printingcase, his three taverns, the Montmartre lair he sleeps 
short night in, rue de la Goutte-d'Or, damascened with flyblown faces of the gone. Loveless, landless, 
wifeless. She is quite nicey comfy without her outcast man, madame in rue Git-le-Coeur, canary and 
two buck lodgers. Peachy cheeks, a zebra skirt, frisky as a young thing's. Spurned and undespairing. 
Tell Pat you saw me, won't you? I wanted to get poor Pat a job one time. Monfils, soldier of France. 
I taught him to sing The boys of Kilkenny are stout roaring blades. Know that old lay? I taught 
Patrice that. Old Kilkenny: saint Canice, Strongbow's castle on the Nore. Goes like this. O, O. He 
takes me, Napper Tandy, by the hand. 

O, O THE BOYS OF 
KILKENNY... 

Weak wasting hand on mine. They have forgotten Kevin Egan, not he them Remembering thee, O 
Sion 

He had come nearer the edge of the sea and wet sand slapped his boots. The new air greeted him, 
harping in wild nerves, wind of wild air of seeds of brightness. Here, I am not walking out to the Kish 
lightship, am I? He stood suddenly, his feet beginning to sink slowly in the quaking soil Turn back. 

Turning, he scanned the shore south, his feet sinking again slowly in new sockets. The cold domed 
room of the tower waits. Through the barbacans the shafts of light are moving ever, slowly ever as my 
feet are sinking, creeping duskward over the dial floor. Blue dusk, nightfall, deep blue night. In the 
darkness of the dome they wait, their pushedback chairs, my obelisk valise, around a board of 
abandoned platters. Who to clear it? He has the key. I will not sleep there when this night comes. A 
shut door of a silent tower, entombing their — blind bodies, the panthersahib and his pointer. Call: no 
answer. He lifted his feet up from the suck and turned back by the mole of boulders. Take all, keep 
all My soul walks with me, form of forms. So in the moon's midwatches I pace the path above the 
rocks, in sable silvered, hearing Elsinore's tempting flood. 

The flood is following me. I can watch it flow past from here. Get back then by the Poolbeg road to 
the strand there. He climbed over the sedge and eery oarweeds and sat on a stool of rock, resting his 
ashpknt in a grike. 

A bloated carcass of a dog lay lolled on bladderwrack. Before him the gunwale of a boat, sunk in 
sand. Un coche ensable Louis Veulot called Gautier's prose. These heavy sands are language tide 

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and wind have silted here. And these, the stoneheaps of dead builders, a warren of weasel rats. Hide 
gold there. Try it. You have some. Sands and stones. Heavy of the past. Sir Lout's toys. Mind you 
don't get one bang on the ear. I'm the bloody well gigant rolls all them bloody well boulders, bones for 
my steppingstones. Feefawfum I zmellz de bloodz odz an Iridzman 

A point, live dog, grew into sight running across the sweep of sand. Lord, is he going to attack me? 
Respect his liberty. You will not be master of others or their slave. I have my stick. Sit tight. From 
farther away, walking shoreward across from the crested tide, figures, two. The two maries. They 
have lucked it safe mong the bulrushes. Peekaboo. I see you No, the dog. He is running back to 
them Who? 

Galleys of the Lochlanns ran here to beach, in quest of prey, their bloodbeaked prows riding low 
on a molten pewter surf Dane vikings, tores of tomahawks aglitter on their breasts when Makchi 
wore the collar of gold. A school of turlehide whales stranded in hot noon, spouting, hobbling in the 
shallows. Then from the starving cagework city a horde of jerkined dwarfs, my people, with flayers' 
knives, running, scaling, hacking in green bhibbery whalemeat. Famine, plague and slaughters. Their 
blood is in me, their Lists my waves. I moved among them on the frozen Liffey, that I, a changeling, 
among the spluttering resin fires. I spoke to no-one: none to me. 

The dog's bark ran towards him, stopped, ran back. Dog of my enemy. I just simply stood pale, 
silent, bayed about. Terribilia meditans. A primrose doublet, fortune's knave, smiled on my fear. For 
that are you pining, the bark of their applause? Pretenders: live their lives. The Brace's brother, 
Thomas Fitzgerald, silken knight, Perkin Warbeck, York's false scion, in breeches of silk ofwhiterose 
ivory, wonder of a day, and Lambert Simnel, with a tail of nans and sutlers, a scullion crowned. All 
kings' sons. Paradise of pretenders then and now. He saved men from drowning and you shake at a 
cur's yelping. But the courtiers who mocked Guido in Or san Michele were in their own house. House 
of.. We don't want any of your medieval abstrusiosities. Would you do what he did? A boat would 
be near, a lifebuoy. Naturlich, put there for you. Would you or would you not? The man that was 
drowned nine days ago off Maiden's rock. They are waiting for him now. The truth spit it out. I would 
want to. I would try. I am not a strong swimmer. Water cold soft. When I put my face into it in the 
basin at Clongowes. Can't see! Who's behind me? Out quickly, quickly! Do you see the tide flowing 
quickly in on all sides, sheeting the lows of sand quickly, shellcocoacoloured? If I had land under my 
feet. I want his life still to be his, mine to be mine. A drowning man His human eyes scream to me out 
of horror of his death I... With him together down... I could not save her. Waters: bitter death: lost. 

A woman and a man. I see her skirties. Pinned up, I bet. 

Their dog ambled about a bank of dwindling sand, trotting, sniffing on all sides. Looking for 
something lost in a past life. Suddenly he made off like a bounding hare, ears flung back, chasing the 
shadow of a lowskimming gull The man's shrieked whistle struck his limp ears. He turned, bounded 
back, came nearer, trotted on twinkling shanks. On a field tenney a buck, trippant, proper, unattired. 
At the lacefringe of the tide he halted with stiff forehoofs, seawardpointed ears. His snout lifted barked 
at the wavenoise, herds of seamorse. They serpented towards his feet, curling, unfurling many crests, 
every ninth, breaking, plashing, from far, from farther out, waves and waves. 

Cocklepickers. They waded a little way in the water and, stooping, soused their bags and, lifting 
them again, waded out. The dog yelped running to them, reared up and pawed them, dropping on all 
fours, again reared up at them with mute bearish fawning. Unheeded he kept by them as they came 
towards the drier sand, a rag of wolfs tongue redpanting from his jaws. His speckled body ambled 
ahead of them and then loped off at a calfs gallop. The carcass lay on his path. He stopped, sniffed, 
stalked round it, brother, nosing closer, went round it, sniffling rapidly like a dog all over the dead 
dog's bedraggled fell Dogskull, dogsniffi eyes on the ground, moves to one great goaL Ah, poor 
dogsbody! Here lies poor dogsbody's body. 

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— Tatters! Out of that, you mongrel! 

The cry brought him skulking back to his master and a blunt bootless kick sent him unscathed 
across a spit of sand, crouched in flight. He stunk back in a curve. Doesn't see me. Along by the edge 
of the mole he lolloped, dawdled, smelt a rock and from under a cocked hindleg pissed against it. He 
trotted forward and, lifting again his hindleg, pissed quick short at an unsmelt rock. The simple 
pleasures of the poor. His hindpaws then scattered the sand: then his forepaws dabbled and delved. 
Something he buried there, his grandmother. He rooted in the sand, dabbling, delving and stopped to 
listen to the air, scraped up the sand again with a fury of his claws, soon ceasing, a pard, a panther, 
got in spousebreach, vulturing the dead. 

After he woke me last night same dream or was it? Wait. Open hallway. Street of harlots. 
Remember. Haroun al Raschid. I am almosting it. That man led me, spoke. I was not afraid. The 
melon he had he held against my face. Smiled: creamfruit smell. That was the rule, said. In. Come. Red 
carpet spread. You wl see who. 

Shouldering their bags they trudged, the red Egyptians. His blued feet out of turnedup trousers 
slapped the clammy sand, a dull brick muffler strangling his unshaven neck. With woman steps she 
followed: the ruffian and his strolling mort. Spoils slung at her back. Loose sand and shellgrit crusted 
her bare feet. About her windraw face hair trailed. Behind her lord, his helpmate, bing awast to 
Romeville. When night hides her body's flaws calling under her brown shawl from an archway where 
dogs have mired. Her fancyman is treating two Royal Dublins in O'Loughlin's of Blackpitts. Buss her, 
wap in rogues' rum lingo, for, O, my dimber wapping dell! A shefiend's whiteness under her rancid 
rags. Fumbalfy's lane that night: the tanyard smells. 

White thy f ambles, red thy gan 
And thy quarrons dainty is. 
Couch a hogshead with me then. 
In the darkmans clip and kiss. 

Morose delectation Aquinas tunbefry calls this, frate porcospino. Unfallen Adam rode and not 
rutted. Call away let him thy quarrons dainty is. Language no whit worse than his. Monkwords, 
marybeads jabber on their girdles: roguewords, tough nuggets patter in their pockets. 

Passing now. 

A side eye at my Hamlet hat. If I were suddenly naked here as I sit? I am not. Across the sands of 
all the world, followed by the sun's flaming sword, to the west, trekking to evening lands. She trudges, 
schlepps, trains, drags, trascines her load. A tide westering, moondrawn, in her wake. Tides, 
myriadislanded, within her, blood not mine, oinopa ponton, a winedark sea. Behold the handmaid of 
the moon. In sleep the wet sign calls her hour, bids her rise. Bridebed, childbed, bed of death, 
ghostcandled. Omnis caro ad te veniet. He comes, pale vampire, through storm his eyes, his bat sails 
bloodying the sea, mouth to her mouth's kiss. 

Here. Put a pin in that chap, will you? My tablets. Mouth to her kiss. 

No. Must be two of em. Glue em well. Mouth to her mouth's kiss. 

His lips lipped and mouthed fleshless lips of air: mouth to her moomb. Oomb, allwombing tomb. His 
mouth moulded issuing breath, unspeeched: ooeeehah: roar of cataractic planets, globed, blazing, 
roaring wayawayawayawayaway. Paper. The banknotes, blast them Old Deasys letter. Here. 
Thanking you for the hospitality tear the blank end off Turning his back to the sun he bent over far to 
a table of rock and scribbled words. That's twice I forgot to take slips from the library counter. 

His shadow lay over the rocks as he bent, ending. Why not endless till the farthest star? Darkly they 

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are there behind this light, darkness shining in the brightness, delta of Cassiopeia, worlds. Me sits there 
with his augur's rod of ash, in borrowed sandals, by day beside a livid sea, unbeheld, in violet night 
walking beneath a reign of uncouth stars. I throw this ended shadow from me, manshape ineluctable, 
call it back. Endless, would it be mine, form of my form? Who watches me here? Who ever anywhere 
will read these written words? Signs on a white field. Somewhere to someone in your flutiest voice. 
The good bishop of Cloyne took the veil of the temple out of his shovel hat: veil of space with 
coloured emblems hatched on its field. Hold hard. Coloured on a flat: yes, that's right. Flat I see, then 
think distance, near, far, flat I see, east, back. Ah, see now! Falls back suddenly, frozen in 
stereoscope. Click does the trick. You find my words dark. Darkness is in our souls do you not think? 
Ftutier. Our souls, shamewounded by our sins, cling to us yet more, a woman to her lover clinging, the 
more the more. 

She trusts me, her hand gentle, the longlashed eyes. Now where the blue hell am I bringing her 
beyond the veil? Into the ineluctable modality of the ineluctable visuality. She, she, she. What she? The 
virgin at Hodges Figgis' window on Monday looking in for one of the alphabet books you were going 
to write. Keen glance you gave her. Wrist through the braided jesse of her sunshade. She lives in 
Leeson park with a grief and kickshaws, a lady of letters. Talk that to someone else, Stevie: a 
pickmeup. Bet she wears those curse of God stays suspenders and yellow stockings, darned with 
lumpy wool. Talk about apple dumplings, piuttosto. Where are your wits? 

Touch me. Soft eyes. Soft soft soft hand. I am lonely here. O, touch me soon, now. What is that 
word known to all men? I am quiet here alone. Sad too. Touch, touch me. 

He lay back at full stretch over the sharp rocks, cramming the scribbled note and pencil into a pock 
his hat. His hat down on his eyes. That is Kevin Egan's movement I made, nodding for his nap, 
sabbath sleep. Et vidit Deus. Et erant valde bona. Alo! Bonjour. Welcome as the flowers in May. 
Under its leaf he watched through peacocktwittering lashes the southing sun. I am caught in this 
burning scene. Pan's hour, the faunal noon. Among gumheavy serpentplants, milkoozing fruits, where 
on the tawny waters leaves lie wide. Pain is far. 

And no more turn aside and brood. 

His gaze brooded on his broadtoed boots, a buck's castoffs, nebeneinander. He counted the 
creases of rucked leather wherein another's foot had nested warm The foot that beat the ground in 
tripudium, foot I dislove. But you were delighted when Esther Osvalt's shoe went on you: girl I knew 
in Paris. Tiens, quel petit pied! Staunch friend, a brother soul: Wilde's love that dare not speak its 
name. His arm: Cranry's arm He now will leave me. And the blame? As I am As I am All or not at 
all. 

In long lassoes from the Cock lake the water flowed full, covering greengoldenry lagoons of sand, 
rising, flowing. My ashpknt will float away. I shall wait. No, they will pass on, passing, chafing against 
the low rocks, swirling, passing. Better get this job over quick. Listen: a fourworded wavespeech: 
seesoo, hrss, rsseeiss, ooos. Vehement breath of waters amid seasnakes, rearing horses, rocks. In 
cups of rocks it slops: flop, slop, slap: bounded in barrels. And, spent, its speech ceases. It flows 
purling, widely flowing, floating foampool, flower unfurling 

Under the upswelling tide he saw the writhing weeds lift languidly and sway reluctant arms, hising up 
their petticoats, in whispering water swaying and upturning coy silver fronds. Day by day: night by 
night: lifted, flooded and let fall Lord, they are weary; and, whispered to, they sigh. Saint Ambrose 
heard it, sigh of leaves and waves, waiting, awaiting the fullness of their times, diebus ac noctibus 
iniurias patiens ingemiscit. To no end gathered; vainly then released, forthflowing, wending back: 
loom of the moon. Weary too in sight of lovers, lascivious men, a naked woman shining in her courts, 
she draws a toil of waters. 

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Five fathoms out there. Full fathom five thy father lies. At one, he said. Found drowned. High water 
at Dublin bar. Driving before it a loose drift of rubble, fanshoals of fishes, silly shells. A corpse rising 
saltwhite from the undertow, bobbing a pace a pace a porpoise landward. There he is. Hook it quick. 
Pull. Sunk though he be beneath the watery floor. We have him Easy now. 

Bag of corpsegas sopping in foul brine. A quiver of minnows, fat of a spongy titbit, flash through the 
slits of his buttoned trouserfry. God becomes man becomes fish becomes barnacle goose becomes 
featherbed mountain Dead breaths I living breathe, tread dead dust, devour a urinous offal from all 
dead. Hauled stark over the gunwale he breathes upward the stench of his green grave, his leprous 
nosehole snoring to the sun. 

A seachange this, brown eyes saltbhie. Seadeath, mildest of all deaths known to man. Old Father 
Ocean. Prix de paris: beware of imitations. Just you give it a fair trial. We enjoyed ourselves 
immensely. 

Come. I thirst. Clouding over. No black clouds anywhere, are there? Thunderstorm Allbright he 
falls, proud lightning of the intellect, Lucifer, dico, quinescit occasum. No. My cockle hat and staff 
and hismy sandal shoon Where? To evening lands. Evening will find itself 

He took the hilt of his ashplant, kinging with it softly, dallying still. Yes, evening will find itself in me, 
without me. All days make their end. By the way next when is it Tuesday will be the longest day. Of all 
the glad new year, mother, the rum turn tiddledy turn Lawn Tennyson, gentleman poet. Gid. For the 
old hag with the yellow teeth. And Monsieur Drumont, gentleman journalist. Gid. My teeth are very 
bad. Why, I wonder. Feel. That one is going too. Shells. Ought I go to a dentist, I wonder, with that 
money? That one. This. Toothless Kinch, the superman. Why is that, I wonder, or does it mean 
something perhaps? 

My handkerchief He threw it. I remember. Did I not take it up? 

His hand groped vainly in his pockets. No, I didn't. Better buy one. 

He laid the dry snot picked from his nostril on a ledge of rock, carefully. For the rest let look who 
will 

Behind. Perhaps there is someone. 

He turned his face over a shoulder, rere regardant. Moving through the air high spars of a 
threemaster, her sails brailed up on the crosstrees, homing, upstream, silently moving, a silent ship. + 



— II — 

Mr Leopold Bloom ate with relish the inner organs of beasts and fowls. He liked thick gib let soup, 
nutty gizzards, a stuffed roast heart, liverslices fried with crustcrumbs, fried hencods' roes. Most of all 
he liked grilled mutton kidneys which gave to his palate a fine tang of faintly scented urine. 

Kidneys were in his mind as he moved about the kitchen softly, righting her breakfast things on the 
humpy tray. Gelid light and air were in the kitchen but out of doors gentle summer morning 
everywhere. Made him feel a bit peckish 

The coals were reddening. 

Another slice of bread and butter: three, four: right. She didn't like her plate full Right. He turned 

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from the tray, lifted the kettle off the hob and set it sideways on the fire. It sat there, dull and squat, its 
spout stuck out. Cup of tea soon. Good. Mouth dry. The cat walked stiffly round a leg of the table 
with tail on high. 

— Mkgnao! 

— O, there you are, Mr Bloom said, turning from the fire. 

The cat mewed in answer and stalked again stiffly round a leg of the table, mewing. Just how she 
stalks over my writingtable. Prr. Scratch my head. Prr. 

Mr Bloom watched curiously, kindly the lithe black form Clean to see: the gloss of her sleek hide, 
the white button under the butt of her tail, the green flashing eyes. He bent down to her, his hands on 
his knees. 

— Mik for the pussens, he said. 

— Mrkgnao! the cat cried. 

They call them stupid. They understand what we say better than we understand them She 
understands all she wants to. Vindictive too. CrueL Her nature. Curious mice never squeal. Seem to 
like it. Wonder what I look like to her. Height of a tower? No, she can jump me. 

— Afraid of the chickens she is, he said mockingly. Afraid of the chookchooks. I never saw such a 
stupid pussens as the pussens. 

CrueL Her nature. Curious mice never squeaL Seem to like it. 

— Mrkrgnao! the cat said loudly. 

She blinked up out of her avid shameclosing eyes, mewing plaintively and long, showing him her 
milkwhite teeth. He watched the dark eyeslits narrowing with greed till her eyes were green stones. 
Then he went to the dresser, took the jug Hanlon's milkman had just filled for him, poured 
warmbubbled milk on a saucer and set it slowly on the floor. 

— Gurrhr! she cried, running to lap. 

He watched the bristles shining wiriry in the weak light as she tipped three times and licked lightly. 
Wonder is it true if you clip them they can't mouse after. Why? They shine in the dark, perhaps, the 
tips. Or kind of feelers in the dark, perhaps. 

He listened to her licking lap. Ham and eggs, no. No good eggs with this drouth. Want pure fresh 
water. Thursday: not a good day either for a mutton kidney at Buckley's. Fried with butter, a shake of 
pepper. Better a pork kidney at Dhigacz's. While the kettle is boiling. She lapped slower, then licking 
the saucer clean Why are their tongues so rough? To lap better, all porous holes. Nothing she can 
eat? He glanced round him No. 

On quietly creaky boots he went up the staircase to the hall, paused by the bedroom door. She 
might like something tasty. Thin bread and butter she likes in the morning. Still perhaps: once in a way. 

He said softly in the bare hall: 

— I'm going round the comer. Be back in a minute. 

And when he had heard his voice say it he added: 

— You don't want anything for breakfast? 

A sleepy soft grunt answered: 

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— Mn. 

No. She didn't want anything. He heard then a warm heavy sigh softer, as she turned over and the 
loose brass quoits of the bedstead jingled. Must get those settled really. Pity. All the way from 
Gibraltar. Forgotten any little Spanish she knew. Wonder what her father gave for it. Old style. Ah 
yes! of course. Bought it at the governor's auction. Got a short knock. Hard as nails at a bargain, old 
Tweedy. Yes, sir. At Plevna that was. I rose from the ranks, sir, and I'm proud of it. Still he had brains 
enough to make that comer in stamps. Now that was farseeing 

His hand took his hat from the peg over his initialled heavy overcoat and his lost property office 
secondhand waterproof Stamps: stickyback pictures. Daresay lots of officers are in the swim too. 
Course they do. The sweated legend in the crown of his hat told him mutely: Plasto's high grade ha. 
He peeped quickly inside the leather headband. White slip of paper. Quite safe. 

On the doorstep he felt in his hip pocket for the latchkey. Not there. In the trousers I left off Must 
get it. Potato I have. Creaky wardrobe. No use disturbing her. She turned over sleepily that time. He 
pulled the halldoor to after him very quietly, more, till the footleaf dropped gentry over the threshold, a 
limp lid. Looked shut. All right till I come back anyhow. 

He crossed to the bright side, avoiding the loose cellarflap of number seventyfive. The sun was 
nearing the steeple of George's church. Be a warm day I fancy. Specialty in these black clothes feel it 
more. Black conducts, reflects, (refracts is it?), the heat. But I couldn't go in that light suit. Make a 
picnic of it. His eyelids sank quietly often as he walked in happy warmth. Boland's breadvan delivering 
with trays our dairy but she prefers yesterday's loaves turnovers crisp crowns hot. Makes you feel 
young. Somewhere in the east: earry morning: set off at dawn. Travel round in front of the sun, steal a 
day's march on him Keep it up for ever never grow a day older technically. Walk along a strand, 
strange land, come to a city gate, sentry there, old ranker too, old Tweedy's big moustaches, leaning 
on a long kind of a spear. Wander through awned streets. Turbaned faces going by. Dark caves of 
carpet shops, big man, Turko the terrible, seated crosslegged, smoking a coiled pipe. Cries of sellers 
in the streets. Drink water scented with fennel, sherbet. Dander along all day. Might meet a robber or 
two. Well, meet him Getting on to sundown. The shadows of the mosques among the pillars: priest 
with a scroll rolled up. A shiver of the trees, signal, the evening wind. I pass on. Fading gold sky. A 
mother watches me from her doorway. She calls her children home in their dark language. High wall: 
beyond strings twanged. Night sky, moon, violet, colour of Molly's new garters. Strings. Listen. A girl 
playing one of those instruments what do you call them: dulcimers. I pass. 

Probably not a bit like it realty. Kind of stuff you read: in the track of the sun. Sunburst on the 
titlepage. He smiled, pleasing himself What Arthur Griffith said about the headpiece over the 
Freeman leader: a homerule sun rising up in the northwest from the laneway behind the bank of 
Ireland. He prolonged his pleased smile. Ikey touch that: homerule sun rising up in the north-west. 

He approached Larry O'Rourke's. From the cellar grating floated up the flabby gush of porter. 
Through the open doorway the bar squirted out whiffs of ginger, teadust, biscuitmush Good house, 
however: just the end of the city traffic. For instance MAuley's down there: n g. as position Of 
course if they ran a tramline along the North Circular from the cattlemarket to the quays value would 
go up like a shot. 

Baldhead over the blind. Cute old codger. No use canvassing him for an ad. Still he knows his own 
business best. There he is, sure enough, my bold Larry, leaning against the sugarbin in his shirtsleeves 
watching the aproned curate swab up with mop and bucket. Simon Dedahis takes him off to a tee with 
his eyes screwed up. Do you know what I'm going to tell you? What's that, Mr O'Rourke? Do you 
know what? The Russians, they'd only be an eight o'clock breakfast for the Japanese. 

Stop and say a word: about the funeral perhaps. Sad thing about poor Dignam, Mr O'Rourke. 

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Turning into Dorset street he said freshly in greeting through the doorway: 

— Good day, Mr O'Rourke. 

— Good day to you. 

— Lovely weather, sir. 

— Tis all that. 

Where do they get the money? Coming up redheaded curates from the county Leitrim, rinsing 
empties and old man in the cellar. Then, lo and behold, they blossom out as Adam Findlaters or Dan 
Talons. Then thin of the competition. General thirst. Good puzzle would be cross Dublin without 
passing a pub. Save it they can't. Off the drunks perhaps. Put down three and carry five. What is that, 
a bob here and there, dribs and drabs. On the wholesale orders perhaps. Doing a double shuffle with 
the town travellers. Square it you with the boss and we'll split the job, see? 

How much would that tot to off the porter in the month? Say ten barrels of stuff Say he got ten per 
cent off O more. Fifteen He passed Saint Joseph's National school. Brats' clamour. Windows open. 
Fresh air helps memory. Or a lilt. Ahbeesee defeegee kelomen opeecue rustyouvee doubleyou. Boys 
are they? Yes. Inishturk. Inishark. Inishboffin. At their joggerfry. Mine. Slieve Bloom 

He halted before Dhigacz's window, staring at the hanks of sausages, polonies, black and white. 
Fifteen multiplied by. The figures whitened in his mind, unsolved: displeased, he let them fade. The 
shiny links, packed with forcemeat, fed his gaze and he breathed in tranquilly the lukewarm breath of 
cooked spicy pigs' blood. 

A kidney oozed bloodgouts on the willowpatterned dish: the last. He stood by the nextdoor girl at 
the counter. Would she buy it too, calling the items from a slip in her hand? Chapped: washingsoda. 
And a pound and a half of Denny's sausages. His eyes rested on her vigorous hips. Woods his name 
is. Wonder what he does. Wife is oldish. New blood. No followers allowed. Strong pair of arms. 
Whacking a carpet on the clothesline. She does whack it, by George. The way her crooked skirt 
swings at each whack. 

The ferreteyed porkbutcher folded the sausages he had snipped off with blotchy fingers, 
sausagepink. Sound meat there: like a stalffed heifer. 

He took a page up from the pile of cut sheets: the model farm at Kinnereth on the lakeshore of 
Tiberias. Can become ideal winter sanatorium Moses Montefiore. I thought he was. Farmhouse, wall 
round it, blurred cattle cropping. He held the page from him: interesting: read it nearer, the title, the 
blurred cropping cattle, the page rustling. A young white heifer. Those mornings in the cattlemarket, 
the beasts lowing in their pens, branded sheep, flop and fall of dung, the breeders in hobnailed boots 
trudging through the litter, slapping a palm on a ripemeated hindquarter, there's a prime one, unpeeled 
switches in their hands. He held the page aslant patiently, bending his senses and his will, his soft 
subject gaze at rest. The crooked skirt swinging, whack by whack by whack. 

The porkbutcher snapped two sheets from the pile, wrapped up her prime sausages and made a 
red grimace. 

— Now, my miss, he said. 

She tendered a coin, smiling boldly, holding her thick wrist out. 

— Thank you, my miss. And one shilling threepence change. For you, please? 

Mr Bloom pointed quickly. To catch up and walk behind her if she went slowly, behind her moving 
hams. Pleasant to see first thing in the morning. Hurry up, damn it. Make hay while the sun shines. She 

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stood outside the shop in sunlight and sauntered lazily to the right. He sighed down his nose: they never 
understand. Sodachapped hands. Crusted toenails too. Brown scapulars in tatters, defending her both 
ways. The sting of disregard glowed to weak pleasure within his breast. For another: a constable off 
duty cuddling her in Eccles lane. They like them sizeable. Prime sausage. O please, Mr Policeman, I'm 
lost in the wood. 

— Threepence, please. 

His hand accepted the moist tender gland and slid it into a sidepocket. Then it fetched up three 
coins from his trousers' pocket and laid them on the rubber prickles. They lay, were read quickly and 
quickly slid, disc by disc, into the til 

— Thank you, sir. Another time. 

A speck of eager fire from foxeyes thanked him He withdrew his gaze after an instant. No: better 
not: another time. 

— Good morning, he said, moving away. 

— Good morning, sir. 

No sign. Gone. What matter? 

He walked back along Dorset street, reading gravely. Agendath Netaim: planters' company. To 
purchase waste sandy tracts from Turkish government and plant with eucalyptus trees. Excellent for 
shade, fuel and construction Orangegroves and immense melonfields north of Jaffa. You pay eighty 
marks and they plant a dunam of land for you with olives, oranges, almonds or citrons. Olives cheaper: 
oranges need artificial irrigation. Every year you get a sending of the crop. Your name entered for life 
as owner in the book of the union. Can pay ten down and the balance in yearly instalments. 
Bleibtreustrasse 34, Berlin, W. 15. 

Nothing doing. Still an idea behind it. 

He looked at the cattle, blurred in silver heat. Silverpowdered olivetrees. Quiet long days: pruning, 
ripening. Olives are packed in jars, eh? I have a few left from Andrews. Molly spitting them out. 
Knows the taste of them now. Oranges in tissue paper packed in crates. Citrons too. Wonder is poor 
Citron still in Saint Kevin's parade. And Mastiansky with the old cither. Pleasant evenings we had 
then. Molly in Citron's basketchair. Nice to hold, cool waxen fruit, hold in the hand, lift it to the nostrils 
and smell the perfume. Like that, heavy, sweet, wild perfume. Always the same, year after year. They 
fetched high prices too, Moisel told me. Arbutus place: Pleasants street: pleasant old times. Must be 
without a flaw, he said. Coming all that way: Spain, Gibraltar, Mediterranean, the Levant. Crates lined 
up on the quayside at Jaffa, chap ticking them off in a book, navvies handling them barefoot in soiled 
dungarees. There's whatdoyoucallhim out of How do you? Doesn't see. Chap you know just to salute 
bit of a bore. His back is like that Norwegian captain's. Wonder if I'll meet him today. Watering cart. 
To provoke the rain. On earth as it is in heaven. 

A cloud began to cover the sun slowly, wholly. Grey. Far. 

No, not like that. A barren land, bare waste. Vulcanic lake, the dead sea: no fish, weedless, sunk 
deep in the earth No wind could lift those waves, grey metal, poisonous foggy waters. Brimstone they 
called it raining down: the cities of the plain: Sodom, Gomorrah, Edom. All dead names. A dead sea in 
a dead land, grey and old. Old now. It bore the oldest, the first race. A bent hag crossed from 
Cassidy's, clutching a naggin bottle by the neck. The oldest people. Wandered far away over all the 
earth captivity to captivity, multiplying, dying, being born everywhere. It lay there now. Now it could 
bear no more. Dead: an old woman's: the grey sunken cunt of the world. 

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Desolatioa 

Grey horror seared his flesh. Folding the page into his pocket he turned into Eccles street, hurrying 
homeward. Cold oils slid along his veins, chilling his blood: age crusting him with a salt cloak. Well, I 
am here now. Yes, I am here now. Morning mouth bad images. Got up wrong side of the bed. Must 
begin again those Sandow's exercises. On the hands down. Blotchy brown brick houses. Number 
eighty still unlet. Why is that? Valuation is only twenty-eight. Towers, Battersby, North, MacArthur: 
parlour windows plastered with bills. Plasters on a sore eye. To smell the gentle smoke of tea, fume of 
the pan, sizzling butter. Be near her ample bedwarmed flesh Yes, yes. 

Quick warm sunlight came running from Berkeley road, swiftly, in slim sandals, along the brightening 
footpath. Runs, she runs to meet me, a girl with gold hair on the wind. 

Two letters and a card lay on the hallfloor. He stooped and gathered them Mrs Marion Bloom His 
quickened heart slowed at once. Bold hand. Mrs Marion. 

— Poldy! 

Entering the bedroom he halfclosed his eyes and walked through warm yellow twilight towards her 
tousled head. 

— Who are the letters for? 

He looked at them Mullingar. Milry. 

— A letter for me from Milry, he said carefully, and a card to you. And a letter for you. 

He laid her card and letter on the twill bedspread near the curve of her knees. 

— Do you want the blind up? 

Letting the blind up by gentle tugs halfway his backward eye saw her glance at the letter and tuck it 
under her pillow. 

— That do? he asked, turning. 

She was reading the card, propped on her elbow. 

— She got the things, she said. 

He waited till she had laid the card aside and curled herself back slowly with a snug sigh 

— Hurry up with that tea, she said. I'm parched. 

— The kettle is boiling, he said. 

But he delayed to clear the chair: her striped petticoat, tossed soiled linen: and lifted all in an armful 
on to the foot of the bed. 

As he went down the kitchen stairs she called: 

—Poldy! 

—What? 

— Scald the teapot. 

On the boil sure enough: a plume of steam from the spout. He scalded and rinsed out the teapot and 
put in four full spoons of tea, tilting the kettle then to let the water flow in Having set it to draw he 
took off the kettle, crushed the pan flat on the live coals and watched the Limp of butter slide and melt. 

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While he unwrapped the kidney the cat mewed hungrily against him Give her too much meat she 
won't mouse. Say they won't eat pork. Kosher. Here. He let the bloodsmeared paper fell to her and 
dropped the kidney amid the sizzling butter sauce. Pepper. He sprinkled it through his fingers ringwise 
from the chipped eggcup. 

Then he slit open his letter, glancing down the page and over. Thanks: new tarn: Mr Coghlan: lough 
Owel picnic: young student: Blazes Boykn's seaside girls. 

The tea was drawn. He filled his own moustachecup, sham crown 

Derby, smiling. Silly Milrys birthday gift. Only five she was then. No, wait: four. I gave her the 
amberoid necklace she broke. Putting pieces of folded brown paper in the letterbox for her. He 
smiled, pouring. 

O, Milly Bloom, you are my darling. 

You are my lookingglass from night to morning. 

I'd rather have you without a farthing 

Than Katey Keogh with her ass and garden. 

Poor old professor Goodwin Dreadful old case. Still he was a courteous old chap. Oldfeshioned 
way he used to bow Molly off the platform And the little mirror in his silk hat. The night Milly brought 
it into the parlour. O, look what I found in professor Goodwin's hat! All we laughed. Sex breaking out 
even then. Pert little piece she was. 

He prodded a fork into the kidney and slapped it over: then fitted the teapot on the tray. Its hump 
bumped as he took it up. Everything on it? Bread and butter, four, sugar, spoon, her cream Yes. He 
carried it upstairs, his thumb hooked in the teapot handle. 

Nudging the door open with his knee he carried the tray in and set it on the chair by the bedhead. 

— What a time you were! she said. 

She set the brasses jingling as she raised herselfbriskfy, an elbow on the pillow. He looked calmly 
down on her bulk and between her large soft bubs, sloping within her nightdress like a shegoat's 
udder. The warmth of her couched body rose on the air, mingling with the fragrance of the tea she 
poured. 

A strip of torn envelope peeped from under the dimpled pillow. In the act of going he stayed to 
straighten the bedspread. 

— Who was the letter from? he asked. 

Bold hand. Marion. 

— O, Boylan, she said. He's bringing the programme. 

— What are you singing? 

— la ci darem with J. C. Doyle, she said, and love's Old Sweet Song. 

Her full lips, drinking, smiled. Rather stale smell that incense leaves next day. Like foul flowerwater. 

— Would you like the window open a little? 

She doubled a slice of bread into her mouth, asking: 

— What time is the funeral? 

— Eleven, I think, he answered. I didn't see the paper. 

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Following the pointing of her finger he took up a leg of her soiled drawers from the bed. No? Then, 
a twisted grey garter looped round a stocking: rumpled, shiny sole. 

— No: that book. 

Other stocking. Her petticoat. 

— It must have fell down, she said. 

He felt here and there. Voglio e non vorrei. Wonder if she pronounces that right: voglio. Not in 
the bed. Must have slid down. He stooped and lifted the valance. The book, fallen, sprawled against 
the bulge of the orangekeyed chamberpot. 

— Show here, she said. I put a mark in it. There's a word I wanted to ask you. 

She swallowed a draught of tea from her cup held by nothandle and, having wiped her fingertips 
smartly on the blanket, began to search the text with the hairpin till she reached the word. 

— Met him what? he asked. 

— Here, she said. What does that mean? 

He leaned downward and read near her polished thumbnail. 

— Metempsychosis? 

— Yes. Who's he when he's at home? 

— Metempsychosis, he said, frowning. It's Greek: from the Greek. That means the transmigration of 
souls. 

— O, rocks! she said. Tell us in plain words. 

He smiled, glancing askance at her mocking eyes. The same young eyes. The first night after the 
charades. Dolphin's Bam. He turned over the smudged pages. Ruby: the Pride of the Ring, Hello. 
Illustration. Fierce Italian with carriagewhip. Must be Ruby pride of the on the floor naked. Sheet 
kindly lent. The monster Maffei desisted and flung his victim from him with an oath. Cruelty 
behind it all Doped animals. Trapeze at Hengler's. Had to look the other way. Mob gaping. Break 
your neck and we'll break our sides. Families of them Bone them young so they metamspychosis. 
That we live after death. Our souls. That a man's soul after he dies. Dignam's soul... 

— Did you finish it? he asked. 

— Yes, she said. There's nothing smutty in it. Is she in love with the first fellow all the time? 

— Never read it. Do you want another? 

— Yes. Get another of Paul de Kock's. Nice name he has. 

She poured more tea into her cup, watching it flow sideways. 

Must get that Capel street library book renewed or they'll write to Kearney, my guarantor. 
Reincarnation: that's the word. 

— Some people believe, he said, that we go on living in another body after death that we lived 
before. They call it reincarnation That we all lived before on the earth thousands of years ago or some 
other planet. They say we have forgotten it. Some say they remember their past lives. 

The sluggish cream wound curdling spirals through her tea. Bette remind her of the word: 
metempsychosis. An example would be better. An example? 

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The Bath of the Nymph over the bed. Given away with the Easter number of Photo Bits: Splendid 
masterpiece in art colours. Tea before you put milk in Not unlike her with her hair down: slimmer. 
Three and six I gave for the frame. She said it would look nice over the bed. Naked nymphs: Greece: 
and for instance all the people that lived then 

He turned the pages back. 

— Metempsychosis, he said, is what the ancient Greeks called it. They used to believe you could be 
changed into an animal or a tree, for instance. What they called nymphs, for example. 

Her spoon ceased to stir up the sugar. She gazed straight before her, inhaling through her arched 
nostrils. 

— There's a smell of burn, she said. Did you leave anything on the fire? 

— The kidney! he cried suddenly. 

He fitted the book roughly into his inner pocket and, stubbing his toes against the broken commode, 
hurried out towards the smell, stepping hastily down the stairs with a flurried stork's legs. Pungent 
smoke shot up in an angry jet from a side of the pan By prodding a prong of the fork under the 
kidney he detached it and turned it turtle on its back. Only a little burnt. He tossed it off the pan on to 
a plate and let the scanty brown gravy trickle over it. 

Cup of tea now. He sat down, cut and buttered a slice of the loaf He shore away the burnt flesh 
and flung it to the cat. Then he put a forkful into his mouth chewing with discernment the toothsome 
pliant meat. Done to a turn. A mouthful of tea. Then he cut away dies of bread, sopped one in the 
gravy and put it in his mouth What was that about some young student and a picnic? He creased out 
the letter at his side, reading it slowly as he chewed, sopping another die of bread in the gravy and 
raising it to his mouth 

Dearest Papli 

Thanks ever so much for the lovely birthday present. It suits me splendid. Everyone says I am quite 
the belle in my new tarn I got mummy's lovely box of creams and am writing. They are lovely. I am 
getting on swimming in the photo business now. Mr Coghlan took one of me and Mrs. Will send when 
developed. We did great biz yesterday. Fair day and all the beef to the heels were in. We are going to 
lough Owel on Monday with a few friends to make a scrap picnic. Give my love to mummy and to 
yourself a big kiss and thanks. I hear them at the piano downstairs. There is to be a concert in the 
Greville Arms on Saturday. There is a young student comes here some evenings named Bannon his 
cousins or something are big swells and he sings Boylan's (I was on the pop of writing Blazes 
Boylan's) song about those seaside girls. Tell him silly MiUy sends my best respects. I must now close 
with fondest love 

Your fond daughter, MILLY. 

P. S. Excuse bad writing am in hurry. Byby. M. 

Fifteen yesterday. Curious, fifteenth of the month too. Her first birthday away from home. 
Separation. Remember the summer morning she was bom, running to knock up Mrs Thornton in 
Denzille street. Jolly old woman Lot of babies she must have helped into the world. She knew from 
the first poor little Rudy wouldn't live. Well, God is good, sir. She knew at once. He would be eleven 
now if he had lived. 

His vacant face stared pityingly at the postscript. Excuse bad writing. Hurry. Piano downstairs. 
Coming out of her shell Row with her in the XL Cafe about the bracelet. Wouldn't eat her cakes or 
speak or look. Saucebox. He sopped other dies of bread in the gravy and ate piece after piece of 

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kidney. Twelve and six a week. Not much. Still, she might do worse. Music hall stage. Young student. 
He drank a draught of cooler tea to wash down his meal. Then he read the letter again: twice. 

O, well: she knows how to mind herself But if not? No, nothing has happened. Of course it might. 
Wait in any case till it does. A wild piece of goods. Her slim legs running up the staircase. Destiny. 
Ripening now. 

Vain: very. 

He smiled with troubled affection at the kitchen window. Day I caught her in the street pinching her 
cheeks to make them red. Anemic a little. Was given milk too long. On the ERIN'S KING that day 
round the Kish Damned old tub pitching about. Not a bit funky. Her pale blue scarf loose in the wind 
with her hair. All dimpled cheeks and curls, Your head it simply swirls. 

Seaside girls. Tom envelope. Hands stuck in his trousers' pockets, jarvey off for the day, singing. 
Friend of the family. Swurls, he says. Pier with lamps, summer evening, band, 

Those girls, those girls, 
Those lovely seaside girls. 

Milry too. Young kisses: the first. Far away now past. Mrs Marion. Reading, tying back now, 
counting the strands of her hair, smiling, braiding. 

A soft qualm, regret, flowed down his backbone, increasing. Will happen, yes. Prevent. Useless: 
can't move. Girl's sweet light lips. Will happen too. He felt the flowing qualm spread over him. Useless 
to move now. Lips kissed, kissing, kissed. Full gluey woman's lips. 

Better where she is down there: away. Occupy her. Wanted a dog to pass the time. Might take a 
trip down there. August bank holiday, only two and six return. Six weeks off, however. Might work a 
press pass. Or through M'Coy. 

The cat, having cleaned all her fur, returned to the meatstained paper, nosed at it and stalked to the 
door. She looked back at him, mewing. Wants to go out. Wait before a door sometime it will open. 
Let her wait. Has the fidgets. Electric. Thunder in the air. Was washing at her ear with her back to the 
fire too. 

He felt heavy, full: then a gentle loosening of his bowels. He stood up, undoing the waistband of his 
trousers. The cat mewed to him. 

— Miaow! he said in answer. Wait till I'm ready. 

Heaviness: hot day coming. Too much trouble to fag up the stairs to the landing. 

A paper. He liked to read at stool. Hope no ape comes knocking just as I'm 

In the tabledrawer he found an old number of Titbits. He folded it under his armpit, went to the 
door and opened it. The cat went up in soft bounds. Ah, wanted to go upstairs, curl up in a ball on the 
bed. 

Listening, he heard her voice: 

— Come, come, pussy. Come. 

He went out through the backdoor into the garden: stood to listen towards the next garden. No 
sound. Perhaps hanging clothes out to dry. The maid was in the garden. Fine morning. 

He bent down to regard a lean file of spearmint growing by the wall Make a summerhouse here. 
Scarlet runners. Virginia creepers. Want to manure the whole place over, scabby soil A coat of liver 

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of sulphur. All soil like that without dung. Household slops. Loam, what is this that is? The hens in the 
next garden: their droppings are very good top dressing. Best of all though are the cattle, especially 
when they are fed on those oilcakes. Mulch of dung. Best thing to clean ladies' kid gloves. Dirty 
cleans. Ashes too. Reclaim the whole place. Grow peas in that corner there. Lettuce. Always have 
fresh greens then Still gardens have their drawbacks. That bee or bluebottle here Whitmonday. 

He walked on Where is my hat, by the way? Must have put it back on the peg. Or hanging up on 
the floor. Funny I don't remember that. Hallstand too full Four umbrellas, her raincloak. Picking up 
the letters. Drago's shopbell ringing. Queer I was just thinking that moment. Brown brilkntined hair 
over his collar. Just had a wash and brushup. Wonder have I time for a bath this morning. Tara street. 
Chap in the paybox there got away James Stephens, they say. O'Brien. 

Deep voice that fellow Dlugacz has. Agendath what is it? Now, my miss. Enthusiast. 

He kicked open the crazy door of the jakes. Better be careful not to get these trousers dirty for the 
funeral. He went in, bowing his head under the low lintel. Leaving the door ajar, amid the stench of 
mouldy limewash and stale cobwebs he undid his braces. Before sitting down he peered through a 
chink up at the nextdoor windows. The king was in his countinghouse. Nobody. 

Asquat on the cuckstool he folded out his paper, turning its pages over on his bared knees. 
Something new and easy. No great hurry. Keep it a bit. Our prize titbit: Matcham 's Masterstroke. 
Written by Mr Philip Beaufoy, Playgoers' Club, London. Payment at the rate of one guinea a column 
has been made to the writer. Three and a half Three pounds three. Three pounds, thirteen and six. 

Quietly he read, restraining himself, the first column and, yielding but resisting, began the second. 
Midway, his last resistance yielding, he allowed his bowels to ease themselves quietly as he read, 
reading still patiently that slight constipation of yesterday quite gone. Hope it's not too big bring on 
piles again. No, just right. So. Ah! Costive. One tabloid of cascara sagrada. Life might be so. It did 
not move or touch him but it was something quick and neat. Print anything now. Silly season. He read 
on, seated calm above his own rising smell. Neat certainly. Matcham often thinks of the 
masterstroke by which he won the laughing witch who now. Begins and ends morally. Hand in 
hand. Smart. He glanced back through what he had read and, while feeling his water flow quietly, he 
envied kindly Mr Beaufoy who had written it and received payment of three pounds, thirteen and six. 

Might manage a sketch. By Mr and Mrs L. M. Bloom. Invent a story for some proverb. Which? 
Time I used to try jotting down on my cuff what she said dressing. Dislike dressing together. Nicked 
myself shaving. Biting her nether lip, hooking the placket of her skirt. Timing her. 9.15. Did Roberts 
pay you yet? 9.20. What had Gretta Conroy on? 9.23. What possessed me to buy this comb? 9.24. 
I'm swelled after that cabbage. A speck of dust on the patent leather of her boot. 

Rubbing smartly in rum each welt against her stockinged calf Morning after the bazaar dance when 
May's band played Ponchielli's dance of the hours. Explain that: morning hours, noon, then evening 
coming on, then night hours. Washing her teeth. That was the first night. Her head dancing. Her 
fansticks clicking. Is that Boylan well off? He has money. Why? I noticed he had a good rich smell off 
his breath dancing. No use humming then. Allude to it. Strange kind of music that last night. The mirror 
was in shadow. She rubbed her handglass briskly on her woollen vest against her full wagging bub. 
Peering into it. Lines in her eyes. It wouldn't pan out somehow. 

Evening hours, girls in grey gauze. Night hours then: black with daggers and eyemasks. Poetical 
idea: pink, then golden, then grey, then black. Still, true to life also. Day: then the night. 

He tore away half the prize story sharply and wiped himself with it. Then he girded up his trousers, 
braced and buttoned himself He pulled back the jerky shaky door of the jakes and came forth from 
the gloom into the air. 

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In the bright light, lightened and cooled in limb, he eyed carefully his black trousers: the ends, the 
knees, the houghs of the knees. What time is the funeral? Better find out in the paper. 

A creak and a dark whirr in the air high up. The bells of George's church They tolled the hour: loud 
dark iron 

Heigho! Heigho! 
Heigho! Heigho! 
Heigho! Heigho! 

Quarter to. There again: the overtone following through the air, third. 

Poor Dignam! 

By lorries along sir John Rogerson's quay Mr Bloom walked soberly, past Windmill lane, Leask's 
the linseed crusher, the postal telegraph office. Could have given that address too. And past the 
sailors' home. He turned from the morning noises of the quayside and walked through Lime street. By 
Brady's cottages a boy for the skins lolled, his bucket of offal linked, smoking a chewed fagbutt. A 
smaller girl with scars of eczema on her forehead eyed him, listlessly holding her battered caskhoop. 
Tell him if he smokes he won't grow. O let him! His life isn't such a bed of roses. Waiting outside pubs 
to bring da home. Come home to ma, da. Slack hour: won't be many there. He crossed Townsend 
street, passed the frowning face of BetheL El, yes: house of Aleph, Beth. And past Nichols' the 
undertaker. At eleven it is. Time enough. Daresay Corny Kelleher bagged the job for O'Neill's. 
Singing with his eyes shut. Corny. Met her once in the park. In the dark. What a lark. Police tout. Her 
name and address she then told with my tooraloom tooraloom tay. O, surely he bagged it. Bury him 
cheap in a whatyoumaycalL With my tooraloom, tooraloom, tooraloom, tooraloom 

In Westland row he halted before the window of the Belfast and Oriental Tea Company and read 
the legends of leadpapered packets: choice blend, finest quality, family tea. Rather warm Tea. Must 
get some from Tom Keman Couldn't ask him at a funeral, though. While his eyes still read blandly he 
took off his hat quietly inhaling his hairoil and sent his right hand with slow grace over his brow and 
hair. Very warm morning. Under their dropped lids his eyes found the tiny bow of the leather 
headband inside his high grade ha. Just there. His right hand came down into the bowl of his hat. His 
fingers found quickly a card behind the headband and transferred it to his waistcoat pocket. 

So warm His right hand once more more slowly went over his brow and hair. Then he put on his 
hat again, relieved: and read again: choice blend, made of the finest Ceylon brands. The far east. 
Lovely spot it must be: the garden of the world, big lazy leaves to float about on, cactuses, flowery 
meads, snaky lianas they call them Wonder is it like that. Those Cinghalese lobbing about in the sun in 
dolce far niente, not doing a hand's rum all day. Sleep six months out of twelve. Too hot to quarreL 
Influence of the climate. Lethargy. Flowers of idleness. The air feeds most. Azotes. Hothouse in 
Botanic gardens. Sensitive plants. Waterlilies. Petals too tired to. Sleeping sickness in the air. Walk on 
roseleaves. Imagine trying to eat tripe and cowheeL Where was the chap I saw in that picture 
somewhere? Ah yes, in the dead sea floating on his back, reading a book with a parasol open. 
Couldn't sink if you tried: so thick with salt. Because the weight of the water, no, the weight of the 
body in the water is equal to the weight of the what? Or is it the volume is equal to the weight? It's a 
law something like that. Vance in High school cracking his fingerjoints, teaching The college 
curriculum Cracking curriculum What is weight really when you say the weight? Thirtytwo feet per 
second per second. Law of falling bodies: per second per second. They all fall to the ground. The 
earth It's the force of gravity of the earth is the weight. 

He turned away and sauntered across the road. How did she walk with her sausages? Like that 
something. As he walked he took the folded Freeman from his sidepocket, unfolded it, rolled it 
lengthwise in a baton and tapped it at each sauntering step against his trouserleg Careless air: just 

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drop in to see. Per second per second. Per second for every second it means. From the curbstone he 
darted a keen glance through the door of the postoffice. Too late box. Post here. No-one. In. 

He handed the card through the brass grill. 

— Are there any letters for me? he asked. 

While the postmistress searched a pigeonhole he gazed at the recruiting poster with soldiers of all 
arms on parade: and held the tip of his baton against his nostrils, smelling freshprinted rag paper. No 
answer probably. Went too far last time. 

The postmistress handed him back through the grill his card with a letter. He thanked her and 
glanced rapidly at the typed envelope. 

Henry Flower Esq, c/o P. O. Westland Row, City. 

Answered anyhow. He slipped card and letter into his sidepocket, reviewing again the soldiers on 
parade. Where's old Tweedy's regiment? Castoff soldier. There: bearskin cap and hackle plume. No, 
he's a grenadier. Pointed cufts. There he is: royal Dublin fusiliers. Redcoats. Too showy. That must be 
why the women go after them Uniform Easier to enlist and drill Maud Gonne's letter about taking 
them off O'Connell street at night: disgrace to our Irish capitaL Griffith's paper is on the same tack 
now: an army rotten with venereal disease: overseas or halfseasover empire. Half baked they look: 
hypnotised like. Eyes front. Mark time. Table: able. Bed: ed. The King's own. Never see him dressed 
up as a fireman or a bobby. A mason, yes. 

He strolled out of the postoffice and turned to the right. Talk: as if that would mend matters. His 
hand went into his pocket and a forefinger felt its way under the flap of the envelope, ripping it open in 
jerks. Women will pay a lot of heed, I don't think. His fingers drew forth the letter the letter and 
crumpled the envelope in his pocket. Something pinned on: photo perhaps. Hair? No. 

M'Coy. Get rid of him quickly. Take me out of my way. Hate company when you. 

— Hello, Bloom Where are you off to? 

— Hello, M'Coy. Nowhere in particular. 

— How's the body? 

— Fine. How are you? 

— Just keeping alive, M'Coy said. 

His eyes on the black tie and clothes he asked with low respect: 

— Is there any... no trouble I hope? I see you're... 

— O, no, Mr Bloom said. Poor Dignam, you know. The funeral is today. 

— To be sure, poor fellow. So it is. What time? 

A photo it isn't. A badge maybe. 

— E... eleven, Mr Bloom answered. 

— I must try to get out there, M'Coy said. Eleven, is it? I only heard it last night. Who was telling 
me? Holohan You know Hoppy? 

— I know. 

Mr Bloom gazed across the road at the outsider drawn up before the door of the Grosvenor. The 

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porter hoisted the valise up on the well She stood still, waiting, while the man, husband, brother, like 
her, searched his pockets for change. Stylish kind of coat with that roll collar, warm for a day like this, 
looks like blanketcloth Careless stand of her with her hands in those patch pockets. Like that haughty 
creature at the polo match. Women all for caste till you touch the spot. Handsome is and handsome 
does. Reserved about to yield. The honourable Mrs and Brutus is an honourable man. Possess her 
once take the starch out of her. 

— I was with Bob Doran, he's on one of his periodical bends, and what do you call him Bantam 
Lyons. Just down there in Conway's we were. 

Doran Lyons in Conway's. She raised a gloved hand to her hair. In came Hoppy. Having a wet. 
Drawing back his head and gazing far from beneath his vailed eyelids he saw the bright fawn skin shine 
in the glare, the braided drums. Clearly I can see today. Moisture about gives long sight perhaps. 
Talking of one thing or another. Lady's hand. Which side will she get up? 

— And he said: Sad thing about our poor friend Paddy! What Paddy? I said. Poor little Paddy 
Dignam, he said. 

Off to the country: Broadstone probably. High brown boots with laces dangling. Wellturned foot. 
What is he foostering over that change for? Sees me looking. Eye out for other fellow always. Good 
fallback. Two strings to her bow. 

— Why? I said. What's wrong with him? I said. 

Proud: rich: silk stockings. 

— Yes, Mr Bloom said. 

He moved a little to the side of M'Coy's talking head. Getting up in a minute. 

— What's wrong with him? He said. He's dead, he said. And, faith he filled up. Is it Paddy 
Dignam? I said. I couldn't believe it when I heard it. I was with him no later than Friday last or 
Thursday was it in the Arch. Yes, he said. He's gone. He died on Monday, poor fellow. Watch! 
Watch! Silk flash rich stockings white. Watch! 

A heavy tramcar honking its gong slewed between. 

Lost it. Curse your noisy pugnose. Feels locked out of it. Paradise and the peri Always happening 
like that. The very moment. Girl in Eustace street hallway Monday was it settling her garter. Her friend 
covering the display of esprit de corps. Well, what are you gaping at? 

— Yes, yes, Mr Bloom said after a dull sigh. Another gone. 

— One of the best, M'Coy said. 

The tram passed. They drove off towards the Loop Line bridge, her rich gloved hand on the steel 
grip. Flicker, flicker: the laceflare of her hat in the sun: flicker, flick. 

— Wife well, I suppose? M'Coy's changed voice said. 

— O, yes, Mr Bloom said. Tiptop, thanks. 

He unrolled the newspaper baton idfy and read idfy: 

What is home without Plumtree's Potted Meat? Incomplete With it an abode of bliss. 

— My missus has just got an engagement. At least it's not settled yet. 

Valise tack again. By the way no harm I'm off that, thanks. 

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Mr Bloom turned his krgelidded eyes with unhasty friendliness. 

— My wife too, he said. She's going to sing at a swagger affair in the Ulster Hall, Belfast, on the 
twenty- fifth. 

— That so? M'Coy said. Glad to hear that, old man. Who's getting it up? 

Mrs Marion Bloom Not up yet. Queen was in her bedroom eating bread and. No book. 
Blackened court cards laid along her thigh by sevens. Dark lady and fair man. Letter. Cat furry black 
ball Torn strip of envelope. 

Love's 

Old 

Sweet 

Song 

Comes lo-ove's old... 

— It's a kind of a tour, don't you see, Mr Bloom said thoughtfully. Sweeeet song. There's a 
committee formed. Part shares and part profits. 

M'Coy nodded, picking at his moustache stubble. 

— O, well, he said. That's good news. 

He moved to go. 

— Well, glad to see you looking fit, he said. Meet you knocking around. 

— Yes, Mr Bloom said. 

— Tell you what, M'Coy said. You might put down my name at the funeral, will you? I'd like to go 
but I mightn't be able, you see. There's a drowning case at Sandycove may turn up and then the 
coroner and myself would have to go down if the body is found. You just shove in my name if I'm not 
there, will you? 

— I'll do that, Mr Bloom said, moving to get off That'll be all right. 

— Right, M'Coy said brightly. Thanks, old man. I'd go if I possibly could. Well, tolloll Just C. P. 
M'Coy will do. 

— That will be done, Mr Bloom answered firmly. 

Didn't catch me napping that wheeze. The quick touch. Soft mark. I'd like my job. Valise I have a 
particular fancy for. Leather. Capped corners, rivetted edges, double action lever lock. Bob Cowley 
lent him his for the Wicklow regatta concert last year and never heard tidings of it from that good day 
to this. 

Mr Bloom, strolling towards Brunswick street, smiled. My missus has just got an. Reedy freckled 
soprano. Cheeseparing nose. Nice enough in its way: for a little ballad. No guts in it. You and me, 
don't you know: in the same boat. Softsoaping Give you the needle that would. Can't he hear the 
difference? Think he's that way inclined a bit. Against my grain somehow. Thought that Belfast would 
fetch him I hope that smallpox up there doesn't get worse. Suppose she wouldn't let herself be 
vaccinated again. Your wife and my wife. 

Wonder is he pimping after me? 

Mr Bloom stood at the corner, his eyes wandering over the multicoloured hoardings. Cantrell and 
Cochrane's Ginger Ale (Aromatic). Clery's Summer Sale. No, he's going on straight. Hello. Leah 

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tonight. Mrs Bandmann Palmer. Like to see her again in that. Hamlet she played last night. Male 
impersonator. Perhaps he was a woman. Why Ophelia committed suicide. Poor papa! How he used 
to talk of Kate Bateman in that. Outside the Adelphi in London waited all the afternoon to get in. Year 
before I was born that was: sixtyftve. And Ristori in Vienna. What is this the right name is? By 
Mosenthal it is. Rachel, is it? No. The scene he was always talking about where the old blind 
Abraham recognises the voice and puts his fingers on his face. 

Nathan's voice! His son's voice! I hear the voice of Nathan who left his father to die of grief and 
misery in my arms, who left the house of his father and left the God of his father. 

Every word is so deep, Leopold. 

Poor papa! Poor man! I'm glad I didn't go into the room to look at his face. That day! O, dear! O, 
dear! Ffoo! Well, perhaps it was best for him 

Mr Bloom went round the corner and passed the drooping nags of the hazard. No use thinking of it 
any more. Nosebag time. Wish I hadn't met that M'Coy fellow. 

He came nearer and heard a crunching of gilded oats, the gentry champing teeth. Their full buck 
eyes regarded him as he went by, amid the sweet oaten reek of horsepiss. Their Eldorado. Poor 
jugginses! Damn all they know or care about anything with their long noses stuck in nosebags. Too full 
for words. Still they get their feed all right and their doss. Gelded too: a stump of black guttapercha 
wagging limp between their haunches. Might be happy all the same that way. Good poor brutes they 
look. Still their neigh can be very irritating. 

He drew the letter from his pocket and folded it into the newspaper he carried. Might just walk into 
her here. The lane is safer. 

He passed the cabman's shelter. Curious the life of drifting cabbies. All weathers, all places, time or 
setdown, no will of their own. Voglio e non. Like to give them an odd cigarette. Sociable. Shout a 
few flying syllables as they pass. He hummed: 

La ci darem la mano 
La la lala la la. 

He turned into Cumberland street and, going on some paces, halted in the lee of the station wall 
No-one. Meade's timberyard. Piled balks. Ruins and tenements. With careful tread he passed over a 
hopscotch court with its forgotten pickeystone. Not a sinner. Near the timberyard a squatted child at 
marbles, alone, shooting the taw with a cunnythumb. A wise tabby, a blinking sphinx, watched from 
her warm sill Pity to disturb them Mohammed cut a piece out of his mantle not to wake her. Open it. 
And once I played marbles when I went to that old dame's school. She liked mignonette. Mrs Ellis's. 
And Mr? He opened the letter within the newspaper. 

A flower. I think it's a. A yellow flower with flattened petals. Not annoyed then? What does she 
say? 

Dear Henry 

I got your last letter to me and thank you very much for it. I am sorry you did not like my last letter. 
Why did you enclose the stamps? I am awfully angry with you. I do wish I could punish you for that. I 
called you naughty boy because I do not like that other world. Please tell me what is the real meaning 
of that word? Are you not happy in your home you poor little naughty boy? I do wish I could do 
something for you. Please tell me what you think of poor me. I often think of the beautiful name you 
have. Dear Henry, when will we meet? I think of you so often you have no idea. I have never felt 
myself so much drawn to a man as you. I feel so bad about. Please write me a long letter and tell me 
more. Remember if you do not I will punish you So now you know what I will do to you, you naughty 

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boy, if you do not wrote. O how I long to meet you. Henry dear, do not deny my request before my 
patience are exhausted. Then I will tell you all. Goodbye now, naughty darling, I have such a bad 
headache, today, and write by return to your longing 

Martha 

P. S. Do tell me what kind of perfume does your wife use. I want to know. 

He tore the flower gravely from its pinhold smelt its almost no smell and placed it in his heart 
pocket. Language of flowers. They like it because no-one can hear. Or a poison bouquet to strike him 
down. Then walking slowly forward he read the letter again, murmuring here and there a word. Angry 
tulips with you darling manflower punish your cactus if you don't please poor forgetmenot how I long 
violets to dear roses when we soon anemone meet all naughty nightstalk wife Martha's perfume. 
Having read it all he took it from the newspaper and put it back in his sidepocket. 

Weak joy opened his lips. Changed since the first letter. Wonder did she wrote it herself Doing the 
indignant: a girl of good family like me, respectable character. Could meet one Sunday after the 
rosary. Thank you: not having any. Usual love scrimmage. Then running round comers. Bad as a row 
with Molly. Cigar has a cooling effect. Narcotic. Go further next time. Naughty boy: punish: afraid of 
words, of course. Brutal, why not? Try it anyhow. A bit at a time. 

Fingering still the letter in his pocket he drew the pin out of it. Common pin, eh? He threw it on the 
road. Out of her clothes somewhere: pinned together. Queer the number of pins they always have. No 
roses without thorns. 

Flat Dublin voices bawled in his head. Those two sluts that night in the Coombe, linked together in 
the rain. 

O, Mary lost the pin of her drawers. 
She didn't know what to do 
To keep it up 
To keep it up. 

It? Them Such a bad headache. Has her roses probably. Or sitting all day typing. Eyefocus bad for 
stomach nerves. What perfume does your wife use. Now could you make out a thing like that? 

To keep it up. 

Martha, Mary. I saw that picture somewhere I forget now old master or faked for money. He is 
sitting in their house, talking. Mysterious. Also the two shits in the Coombe would listen 

To keep it up. 

Nice kind of evening feeling. No more wandering about. Just loll there: quiet dusk: let everything rip. 
Forget. Tell about places you have been, strange customs. The other one, jar on her head, was getting 
the supper: fruit, olives, lovely cool water out of a well, stonecold like the hole in the wall at Ashtown 
Must carry a paper goblet next time I go to the trottingmatches. She listens with big dark soft eyes. 
Tell her: more and more: all Then a sigh: silence. Long long long rest. 

Going under the railway arch he took out the envelope, tore it swiftly in shreds and scattered them 
towards the road. The shreds fluttered away, sank in the dank air: a white flutter, then all sank. 

Henry Flower. You could tear up a cheque for a hundred pounds in the same way. Simple bit of 
paper. Lord Iveagh once cashed a sevenfigure cheque for a million in the bank of Ireland. Shows you 
the money to be made out of porter. Still the other brother lord Ardilaun has to change his shirt four 
times a day, they say. Skin breeds lice or vermin. A million pounds, wait a moment. Twopence a pint, 

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fourpence a quart, eightpence a gallon of porter, no, one and fourpence a gallon of porter. One and 
four into twenty: fifteen about. Yes, exactly. Fifteen millions of barrels of porter. 

What am I saying barrels? Gallons. About a million barrels all the same. 

An incoming train clanked heavily above his head, coach after coach. Barrels bumped in his head: 
dull porter slopped and churned inside. The bungholes sprang open and a huge dull flood leaked out, 
flowing together, winding through mudflats all over the level land, a lazy pooling swirl of liquor bearing 
along wide leaved flowers of its froth 

He had reached the open backdoor of All Hallows. Stepping into the porch he doffed his hat, took 
the card from his pocket and tucked it again behind the leather headband. Damn it. I might have tried 
to work M'Coy for a pass to Mullingar. 

Same notice on the door. Sermon by the very reverend John Conmee S.J. on saint Peter Ckver 
S.J. and the African Mission. Prayers for the conversion of Gladstone they had too when he was 
almost unconscious. The protestants are the same. Convert Dr William J. Walsh D.D. to the true 
religion. Save China's millions. Wonder how they explain it to the heathen Chinee. Prefer an ounce of 
opium. Celestials. Rank heresy for them Buddha their god lying on his side in the museum Taking it 
easy with hand under his cheek. Josssticks burning. Not like Ecce Homo. Crown of thorns and cross. 
Clever idea Saint Patrick the shamrock. Chopsticks? Conmee: Martin Cunningham knows him: 
distinguishedlooking Sorry I didn't work him about getting Molly into the choir instead of that Father 
Farley who looked a fool but wasn't. They're taught that. He's not going out in bhiey specs with the 
sweat rolling off him to baptise blacks, is he? The glasses would take their fancy, flashing. Like to see 
them sitting round in a ring with blub lips, entranced, listening. Still life. Lap it up like milk, I suppose. 

The cold smell of sacred stone called him He trod the worn steps, pushed the swingdoor and 
entered softly by the rere. 

Something going on: some sodality. Pity so empty. Nice discreet place to be next some girl. Who is 
my neighbour? Jammed by the hour to slow music. That woman at midnight mass. Seventh heaven. 
Women knelt in the benches with crimson halters round their necks, heads bowed. A batch knelt at 
the altarrails. The priest went along by them, murmuring, holding the thing in his hands. He stopped at 
each, took out a communion, shook a drop or two (are they in water?) off it and put it neatly into her 
mouth. Her hat and head sank. Then the next one. Her hat sank at once. Then the next one: a small 
old woman The priest bent down to put it into her mouth, murmuring all the time. Latin The next one. 
Shut your eyes and open your mouth. What? Corpus: body. Corpse. Good idea the Latin. Stupefies 
them first. Hospice for the dying. They don't seem to chew it: only swallow it down. Rum idea: eating 
bits of a corpse. Why the cannibals cotton to it. 

He stood aside watching their blind masks pass down the aisle, one by one, and seek their places. 
He approached a bench and seated himself in its corner, nursing his hat and newspaper. These pots 
we have to wear. We ought to have hats modelled on our heads. They were about him here and there, 
with heads still bowed in their crimson halters, waiting for it to melt in their stomachs. Something like 
those mazzoth: it's that sort of bread: unleavened shewbread. Look at them Now I bet it makes them 
feel happy. Lollipop. It does. Yes, bread of angels it's called. There's a big idea behind it, kind of 
kingdom of God is within you feel. First communicants. Hokypoky penny a lump. Then feel all like one 
family party, same in the theatre, all in the same swim They do. I'm sure of that. Not so lonely. In our 
confraternity. Then come out a bit spreeish Let off steam Thing is if you really believe in it. Lourdes 
cure, waters of oblivion, and the Knock apparition, statues bleeding. Old fellow asleep near that 
confessionbox Hence those snores. Blind faith. Safe in the arms of kingdom come. Lulls all pain. 
Wake this time next year. 

He saw the priest stow the communion cup away, well in, and kneel an instant before it, showing a 

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large grey bootsole from under the lace affair he had on. Suppose he lost the pin of his. He wouldn't 
know what to do to. Bald spot behind. Letters on his back: I.N.R.I? No: I.H.S. Molly told me one 
time I asked her. I have sinned: or no: I have suffered, it is. And the other one? Iron nails ran in 

Meet one Sunday after the rosary. Do not deny my request. Turn up with a veil and black bag. 
Dusk and the light behind her. She might be here with a ribbon round her neck and do the other thing 
all the same on the sly. Their character. That fellow that turned queen's evidence on the invincibles he 
used to receive the, Carey was his name, the communion every morning. This very church. Peter 
Carey, yes. No, Peter Claver I am thinking of Denis Carey. And just imagine that. Wife and six 
children at home. And plotting that murder all the time. Those crawthumpers, now that's a good name 
for them, there's always something shiftylooking about them They're not straight men of business 
either. O, no, she's not here: the flower: no, no. By the way, did I tear up that envelope? Yes: under 
the bridge. 

The priest was rinsing out the chalice: then he tossed off the dregs smartly. Wine. Makes it more 
aristocratic than for example if he drank what they are used to Guinness's porter or some temperance 
beverage Wheatley's Dublin hop bitters or Cantrell and Cochrane's ginger ale (aromatic). Doesn't give 
them any of it: shew wine: only the other. Cold comfort. Pious fraud but quite right: otherwise they'd 
have one old booser worse than another coming along, cadging for a drink. Queer the whole 
atmosphere of the. Quite right. Perfectly right that is. 

Mr Bloom looked back towards the choir. Not going to be any music. Pity. Who has the organ 
here I wonder? Old Glynn he knew how to make that instrument talk, the vibrato: fifty pounds a year 
they say he had in Gardiner street. Molly was in fine voice that day, the Stabat Mater of Rossini. 
Father Bernard Vaughan's sermon first. Christ or Pilate? Christ, but don't keep us all night over it. 
Music they wanted. Footdrill stopped. Could hear a pin drop. I told her to pitch her voice against that 
corner. I could feel the thrill in the air, the full, the people looking up: 

Quis est homo. 

Some of that old sacred music splendid. Mercadante: seven last words. Mozart's twelfth mass: 
Gloria in that. Those old popes keen on music, on art and statues and pictures of all kinds. Palestrina 
for example too. They had a gay old time while it lasted. Healthy too, chanting, regular hours, then 
brew liqueurs. Benedictine. Green Chartreuse. Still, having eunuchs in their choir that was coming it a 
bit thick. What kind of voice is it? Must be curious to hear after their own strong basses. 
Connoisseurs. Suppose they wouldn't feel anything after. Kind of a placid. No worry. Fall into flesh, 
don't they? Gluttons, tall, long legs. Who knows? Eunuch. One way out of it. 

He saw the priest bend down and kiss the altar and then face about and bless all the people. All 
crossed themselves and stood up. Mr Bloom glanced about him and then stood up, looking over the 
risen hats. Stand up at the gospel of course. Then all settled down on their knees again and he sat 
back quietly in his bench The priest came down from the altar, holding the thing out from him, and he 
and the massboy answered each other in Latin Then the priest knelt down and began to read off a 
card: 

— O God, our refuge and our strength.. 

Mr Bloom put his face forward to catch the words. English. Throw them the bone. I remember 
slightly. How long since your last mass? Glorious and immaculate virgin Joseph her spouse. Peter and 
Paul. More interesting if you understood what it was all about. Wonderful organisation certainly, goes 
like clockwork. Confession. Everyone wants to. Then I will tell you all Penance. Punish me, please. 
Great weapon in their hands. More than doctor or solicitor. Woman dying to. And I 
schschschschschsch And did you chachachachacha? And why did you? Look down at her ring to 
find an excuse. Whispering gallery walls have ears. Husband learn to his surprise. God's little joke. 

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Then out she comes. Repentance skindeep. Lovely shame. Pray at an altar. Hail Mary and Holy 
Mary. Flowers, incense, candles melting. Hide her blushes. Salvation army blatant imitation Reformed 
prostitute will address the meeting. How I found the Lord. Squareheaded chaps those must be in 
Rome: they work the whole show. And don't they rake in the money too? Bequests also: to the P.P. 
for the time being in his absolute discretion. Masses for the repose of my soul to be said pub lie fy with 
open doors. Monasteries and convents. The priest in that Fermanagh will case in the witnessbox. No 
browbeating him He had his answer pat for everything Liberty and exaltation of our holy mother the 
church. The doctors of the church: they mapped out the whole theology of it. 

The priest prayed: 

— Blessed Michael, archangel, defend us in the hour of conflict. Be our safeguard against the 
wickedness and snares of the devil (may God restrain him, we humbly pray!): and do thou, O prince 
of the heavenly host, by the power of God thrust Satan down to hell and with him those other wicked 
spirits who wander through the world for the ruin of souls. 

The priest and the massboy stood up and walked off All over. The women remained behind: 
thanksgiving. 

Better be shoving along. Brother Buzz. Come around with the plate perhaps. Pay your Easter duty. 

He stood up. Hello. Were those two buttons of my waistcoat open all the time? Women enjoy it. 
Never tell you. But we. Excuse, miss, there's a (whh!) just a (whh!) fluff Or their skirt behind, placket 
unhooked. Glimpses of the moon. Annoyed if you don't. Why didn't you tell me before. Still like you 
better untidy. Good job it wasn't farther south. He passed, discreetly buttoning, down the aisle and out 
through the main door into the light. He stood a moment unseeing by the cold black marble bowl while 
before him and behind two worshippers dipped furtive hands in the low tide of holy water. Trams: a 
car of Prescott's dyeworks: a widow in her weeds. Notice because I'm in mourning myself He 
covered himself How goes the time? Quarter past. Time enough yet. Better get that lotion made up. 
Where is this? Ah yes, the last time. Swenys in Lincoln place. Chemists rarely move. Their green and 
gold beaconjars too heavy to stir. Hamilton Long's, founded in the year of the flood. Huguenot 
churchyard near there. Visit some day. 

He walked southward along Westland row. But the recipe is in the other trousers. O, and I forgot 
that latchkey too. Bore this funeral affair. O well, poor fellow, it's not his fault. When was it I got it 
made up last? Wait. I changed a sovereign I remember. First of the month it must have been or the 
second. O, he can look it up in the prescriptions book. 

The chemist turned back page after page. Sandy shrivelled smell he seems to have. Shrunken skull. 
And old. Quest for the philosopher's stone. The alchemists. Drugs age you after mental excitement. 
Lethargy then. Why? Reaction. A lifetime in a night. Gradually changes your character. Living all the 
day among herbs, ointments, disinfectants. All his alabaster lirypots. Mortar and pestle. Aq. Dist. FoL 
Laur. Te Virid. Smell almost cure you like the dentist's doorbell Doctor Whack. He ought to physic 
himself a bit. Electuary or emulsion. The first fellow that picked an herb to cure himself had a bit of 
pluck. Simples. Want to be careful. Enough stuff here to chloroform you. Test: turns blue litmus paper 
red. Chloroform Overdose of laudanum Sleeping draughts. Lovephiltres. Paragoric poppysyrup bad 
for cough. Clogs the pores or the phlegm. Poisons the only cures. Remedy where you least expect it. 
Clever of nature. 

— About a fortnight ago, sir? 

— Yes, Mr Bloom said. 

He waited by the counter, inhaling slowly the keen reek of drugs, the dusty dry smell of sponges 
and loofahs. Lot of time taken up telling your aches and pains. 

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— Sweet almond oil and tincture of benzoin, Mr Bloom said, and then orangeflower water... 

It certainly did make her skin so delicate white like wax. 

— And white wax also, he said. 

Brings out the darkness of her eyes. Looking at me, the sheet up to her eyes, Spanish, smelling 
herself, when I was fixing the links in my cuffs. Those homely recipes are often the best: strawberries 
for the teeth: nettles and rainwater: oatmeal they say steeped in buttermilk. Skinfood. One of the old 
queen's sons, duke of Albany was it? had only one skin. Leopold, yes. Three we have. Warts, 
bunions and pimples to make it worse. But you want a perfume too. What perfume does your? Peau 
d'Espagne. That orangeflower water is so fresh. Nice smell these soaps have. Pure curd soap. Time 
to get a bath round the corner. Hammam Turkish. Massage. Dirt gets rolled up in your navel. Nicer if 
a nice girl did it. Also I think I. Yes I. Do it in the bath Curious longing I. Water to water. Combine 
business with pleasure. Pity no time for massage. Feel fresh then all the day. Funeral be rather glum 

— Yes, sir, the chemist said. That was two and nine. Have you brought a bottle? 

— No, Mr Bloom said. Make it up, please. I'll call later in the day and I'll take one of these soaps. 
How much are they? 

— Fourpence, sir. 

Mr Bloom raised a cake to his nostrils. Sweet lemony wax. 

— I'll take this one, he said. That makes three and a penny. 

— Yes, sir, the chemist said. You can pay all together, sir, when you come back. 

— Good, Mr Bloom said. 

He strolled out of the shop, the newspaper baton under his armpit, the coohvrappered soap in his 
left hand. 

At his armpit Bantam Lyons' voice and hand said: 

— Hello, Bloom What's the best news? Is that today's? Show us a minute. 

Shaved off his moustache again, by Jove! Long cold upper lip. To look younger. He does look 
balmy. Younger than I am 

Bantam Lyons's yellow blacknailed fingers unrolled the baton. Wants a wash too. Take off the 
rough dirt. Good morning, have you used Pears' soap? Dandruff on his shoulders. Scalp wants oiling. 

— I want to see about that French horse that's running today, Bantam Lyons said. Where the 
bugger is it? 

He rustled the pleated pages, jerking his chin on his high collar. Barber's itch. Tight collar he'll lose 
his hair. Better leave him the paper and get shut of him 

— You can keep it, Mr Bloom said. 

— Ascot. Gold cup. Wait, Bantam Lyons muttered. Haifa mo. Maximum the second. 

— I was just going to throw it away, Mr Bloom said. 

Bantam Lyons raised his eyes suddenly and leered weakly. 

— What's that? his sharp voice said. 

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— I say you can keep it, Mr Bloom answered. I was going to throw it away that moment. 

Bantam Lyons doubted an instant, leering: then thrust the outspread sheets back on Mr Bloom's 
arms. 

— I'll risk it, he said. Here, thanks. 

He sped off towards Conway's corner. God speed scut. 

Mr Bloom folded the sheets again to a neat square and lodged the soap in it, smiling. Silly lips of 
that chap. Betting. Regular hotbed of it lately. Messenger boys stealing to put on sixpence. Raffle for 
large tender turkey. Your Christmas dinner for threepence. Jack Fleming embezzling to gamble then 
smuggled off to America. Keeps a hotel now. They never come back. Fleshpots of Egypt. 

He walked cheerfully towards the mosque of the baths. Remind you of a mosque, redbaked bricks, 
the minarets. College sports today I see. He eyed the horseshoe poster over the gate of college park: 
cyclist doubled up like a cod in a pot. Damn bad ad. Now if they had made it round like a wheel. 
Then the spokes: sports, sports, sports: and the hub big: college. Something to catch the eye. 

There's Hornblower standing at the porter's lodge. Keep him on hands: might take a turn in there on 
the nod. How do you do, Mr Hornblower? How do you do, sir? 

Heavenly weather really. If life was always like that. Cricket weather. Sit around under sunshades. 
Over after over. Out. They can't play it here. Duck for six wickets. Still Captain Culler broke a 
window in the Kildare street club with a slog to square leg. Donnybrook fair more in their line. And 
the skulls we were acracking when M'Carthy took the floor. Heatwave. Won't last. Always passing, 
the stream of life, which in the stream of life we trace is dearer than them all 

Enjoy a bath now: clean trough of water, cool enamel, the gentle tepid stream This is my body. 

He foresaw his pale body reclined in it at full, naked, in a womb of warmth oiled by scented 
melting soap, softly laved. He saw his trunk and limbs riprippled over and sustained, buoyed lightly 
upward, lemonyellow: his navel, bud of flesh: and saw the dark tangled curls of his bush floating, 
floating hair of the stream around the limp father of thousands, a languid floating flower. 

Martin Cunningham, first, poked his silkhatted head into the creaking carriage and, entering deftly, 
seated himself Mr Power stepped in after him, curving his height with care. 

— Come on, Simon. 

— After you, Mr Bloom said. 

Mr Dedahis covered himself quickly and got in, saying: 

Yes, yes. 

— Are we all here now? Martin Cunningham asked. Come along, Bloom 

Mr Bloom entered and sat in the vacant place. He pulled the door to after him and slammed it twice 
till it shut tight. He passed an arm through the armstrap and looked seriously from the open 
carriagewindow at the lowered blinds of the avenue. One dragged aside: an old woman peeping. 
Nose whitefrattened against the pane. Thanking her stars she was passed over. Extraordinary the 
interest they take in a corpse. Glad to see us go we give them such trouble coming. Job seems to suit 
them Huggermugger in comers. Slop about in slipperslappers for fear he'd wake. Then getting it 
ready. Laying it out. Molly and Mrs Fleming making the bed. Pull it more to your side. Our 
windingsheet. Never know who will touch you dead. Wash and shampoo. I believe they clip the nails 
and the hair. Keep a bit in an envelope. Grows all the same after. Unclean job. 

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All waited. Nothing was said. Stowing in the wreaths probably. I am sitting on something hard. Ah, 
that soap: in my hip pocket. Better shift it out of that. Wait for an opportunity. 

All waited. Then wheels were heard from in front, turning: then nearer: then horses' hoofs. A jolt. 
Their carriage began to move, creaking and swaying. Other hoofs and creaking wheels started behind. 
The blinds of the avenue passed and number nine with its craped knocker, door ajar. At walking 
pace. 

They waited still, their knees jogging, till they had turned and were passing along the tramtracks. 
Tritonville road. Quicker. The wheels rattled rolling over the cobbled causeway and the crazy glasses 
shook rattling in the doorframes. 

— What way is he taking us? Mr Power asked through both windows. 

— Irishtown, Martin Cunningham said. Ringsend. Brunswick street. 

Mr Dedakis nodded, looking out. 

— That's a fine old custom, he said. I am glad to see it has not died out. 

All watched awhile through their windows caps and hats lifted by passers. Respect. The carriage 
swerved from the tramtrack to the smoother road past Watery lane. Mr Bloom at gaze saw a lithe 
young man, clad in mourning, a wide hat. 

— There's a friend of yours gone by, Dedakis, he said. 

—Who is that? 

— Your son and heir. 

— Where is he? Mr Dedakis said, stretching over across. 

The carriage, passing the open drains and mounds of rippedup roadway before the tenement 
houses, lurched round the corner and, swerving back to the tramtrack, rolled on noisily with chattering 
wheels. Mr Dedakis fell back, saying: 

— Was that Mulgan cad with him? Hisfidus Achates] 

— No, Mr Bloom said. He was alone. 

— Down with his aunt Sally, I suppose, Mr Dedakis said, the Goulding faction, the drunken little 
costdrawer and Crissie, papa's little lump of dung, the wise child that knows her own father. 

Mr Bloom smiled joylessly on Ringsend road. Wallace Bros: the bottleworks: Dodder bridge. 

Richie Goulding and the legal bag. Goulding, Collis and Ward he calls the firm His jokes are getting 
a bit damp. Great card he was. Waltzing in Stamer street with Ignatius Gallaher on a Sunday morning, 
the landlady's two hats pinned on his head. Out on the rampage all night. Beginning to tell on him now: 
that backache of his, I fear. Wife ironing his back. Thinks he'll cure it with pills. All breadcrumbs they 
are. About six hundred per cent profit. 

— He's in with a lowdown crowd, Mr Dedakis snarled. That Mulligan is a contaminated bloody 
doubledyed ruffian by all accounts. His name stinks all over Dublin But with the help of God and His 
blessed mother I'll make it my business to write a letter one of those days to his mother or his aunt or 
whatever she is that will open her eye as wide as a gate. I'll tickle his catastrophe, believe you me. 

He cried above the clatter of the wheels: 

— I won't have her bastard of a nephew ruin my son. A counterjumper's son. Selling tapes in my 

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cousin, Peter Paul M'Swineys. Not likely. 

He ceased. Mr Bloom glanced from his angry moustache to Mr Power's mild lace and Martin 
Cunningham's eyes and beard, gravely shaking. Noisy selfwilled man. Full of his son. He is right. 
Something to hand on. If little Rudy had lived. See him grow up. Hear his voice in the house. Walking 
beside Molly in an Eton suit. My son. Me in his eyes. Strange feeling it would be. From me. Just a 
chance. Must have been that morning in Raymond terrace she was at the window watching the two 
dogs at it by the wall of the cease to do evil. And the sergeant grinning up. She had that cream gown 
on with the rip she never stitched. Give us a touch, Poldy. God, I'm dying for it. How life begins. 

Got big then. Had to refuse the Greystones concert. My son inside her. I could have helped him on 
in life. I could. Make him independent. Learn German too. 

— Are we late? Mr Power asked. 

— Ten minutes, Martin Cunningham said, looking at his watch 

Molly. Milry. Same thing watered down. Her tomboy oaths. O jumping Jupiter! Ye gods and little 
frshes! Still, she's a dear girL Soon be a woman Mullingar. Dearest Papli. Young student. Yes, yes: a 
woman too. Life, life. 

The carriage heeled over and back, their four trunks swaying. 

— Corny might have given us a more commodious yoke, Mr Power said. 

— He might, Mr Dedakis said, if he hadn't that squint troubling him Do you follow me? 

He closed his left eye. Martin Cunningham began to brush away crustcrumbs from under his thighs. 

— What is this, he said, in the name of God? Crumbs? 

— Someone seems to have been making a picnic party here lately, Mr Power said. 

All raised their thighs and eyed with disfavour the mildewed buttonless leather of the seats. Mr 
Dedakis, twisting his nose, frowned downward and said: 

— Unless I'm greatly mistaken What do you think, Martin? 

— It struck me too, Martin Cunningham said. 

Mr Bloom set his thigh down. Glad I took that bath. Feel my feet quite clean. But I wish Mrs 
Fleming had darned these socks better. 

Mr Dedakis sighed resignedly. 

— After all, he said, it's the most natural thing in the world. 

— Did Tom Kernan turn up? Martin Cunningham asked, twirling the peak of his beard gentry. 

— Yes, Mr Bloom answered. He's behind with Ned Lambert and Hynes. 

— And Corny Kelleher himself? Mr Power asked. 

— At the cemetery, Martin Cunningham said. 

— I met M'Coy this morning, Mr Bloom said. He said he'd try to come. 

The carriage halted short. 

— What's wrong? 

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— We're stopped. 

— Where are we? 

Mr Bloom put his head out of the window. 

— The grand canal, he said. 

Gasworks. Whooping cough they say it cures. Good job Milry never got it. Poor children! Doubles 
them up black and blue in convulsions. Shame realty. Got off lightly with illnesses compared. Only 
measles. Flaxseed tea. Scarlatina, influenza epidemics. Canvassing for death. Don't miss this chance. 
Dogs' home over there. Poor old Athos! Be good to Athos, Leopold, is my last wish. Thy will be 
done. We obey them in the grave. A dying scrawl. He took it to heart, pined away. Quiet brute. Old 
men's dogs usually are. 

A raindrop spat on his hat. He drew back and saw an instant of shower spray dots over the grey 
flags. Apart. Curious. Like through a colander. I thought it would. My boots were creaking I 
remember now. 

— The weather is changing, he said quietly. 

— A pity it did not keep up fine, Martin Cunningham said. 

— Wanted for the country, Mr Power said. There's the sun again coming out. 

Mr DedaLis, peering through his glasses towards the veiled sun, hurled a mute curse at the sky. 

— It's as uncertain as a child's bottom, he said. 

— We're off again 

The carriage turned again its stiff wheels and their trunks swayed gentry. Martin Cunningham twirled 
more quickly the peak of his beard. 

— Tom Kernan was immense last night, he said. And Paddy Leonard taking him off to his face. 

— O, draw him out, Martin, Mr Power said eagerly. Wait till you hear him, Simon, on Ben 
Do Hard's singing of The Croppy Boy. 

— Immense, Martin Cunningham said pompously. His singing of that simple ballad, Martin, is 
the most trenchant rendering I ever heard in the whole course of my experience. 

— Trenchant, Mr Power said laughing. He's dead nuts on that. And the retrospective arrangement. 

— Did you read Dan Dawson's speech? Martin Cunningham asked. 

— I did not then, Mr DedaLis said. Where is it? 

— In the paper this morning. 

Mr Bloom took the paper from his inside pocket. That book I must change for her. 

— No, no, Mr DedaLis said quickly. Later on please. 

Mr Bloom's glance travelled down the edge of the paper, scanning the deaths: Callan, Coleman, 
Dignam, Fawcett, Lowry, Naumann, Peake, what Peake is that? is it the chap was in Crosbie and 
Alleyne's? no, Sexton, Urbright. Inked characters fast fading on the frayed breaking paper. Thanks to 
the Little Flower. Sadly missed. To the inexpressible grief of his. Aged 88 after a long and tedious 
illness. Month's mind: Quinlan. On whose soul Sweet Jesus have mercy. 

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It is now a month since dear Henry fled To his home up above in the sky While his family 
weeps and mourns his loss Hoping some day to meet him on high. 

I tore up the envelope? Yes. Where did I put her letter after I read it in the bath? He patted his 
waistcoatpocket There all right. Dear Henry fled. Before my patience are exhausted. 

National school. Meade's yard. The hazard. Only two there now. Nodding. Full as a tick. Too 
much bone in their skulls. The other trotting round with a fare. An hour ago I was passing there. The 
jarvies raised their hats. 

A pointsman's back straightened itself upright suddenly against a tramway standard by Mr Bloom's 
window. Couldn't they invent something automatic so that the wheel itself much handier? Well but that 
fellow would lose his job then? Well but then another fellow would get a job making the new 
invention? 

Antient concert rooms. Nothing on there. A man in a buff suit with a crape armlet. Not much grief 
there. Quarter mourning. People in law perhaps. 

They went past the bleak pulpit of saint Mark's, under the railway bridge, past the Queen's theatre: 
in silence. Hoardings: Eugene Stratton, Mrs Bandmann Palmer. Could I go to see LEAH tonight, I 
wonder. I said I. Or the Lily of Killarney? Elster Grimes Opera Company. Big powerful change. Wet 
bright bills for next week. Fun on the Bristol. Martin Cunningham could work a pass for the Gaiety. 
Have to stand a drink or two. As broad as it's long. 

He's coming in the afternoon. Her songs. 

Plasto's. Sir Philip Crampton's memorial fountain bust. Who was he? 

— How do you do? Martin Cunningham said, raising his palm to his brow in salute. 

— He doesn't see us, Mr Power said. Yes, he does. How do you do? 

— Who? Mr Dedalus asked. 

— Blazes Boylan, Mr Power said. There he is airing his quiff 

Just that moment I was thinking. 

Mr Dedalus bent across to salute. From the door of the Red Bank the white disc of a straw hat 
flashed reply: spruce figure: passed. 

Mr Bloom reviewed the nails of his left hand, then those of his right hand. The nails, yes. Is there 
anything more in him that they she sees? Fascination Worst man in Dublin. That keeps him alive. They 
sometimes feel what a person is. Instinct. But a type like that. My nails. I am just looking at them: well 
pared. And after: thinking alone. Body getting a bit softy. I would notice that: from remembering. What 
causes that? I suppose the skin can't contract quickly enough when the flesh falls off But the shape is 
there. The shape is there still Shoulders. Hips. Plump. Night of the dance dressing. Shift stuck 
between the cheeks behind. 

He clasped his hands between his knees and, satisfied, sent his vacant glance over their faces. 

Mr Power asked: 

— How is the concert tour getting on, Bloom? 

— O, very well, Mr Bloom said. I hear great accounts of it. It's a good idea, you see... 

— Are you going yourself? 

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— Well no, Mr Bloom said. In point of fact I have to go down to the county Clare on some private 
business. You see the idea is to tour the chief towns. What you lose on one you can make up on the 
other. 

— Quite so, Martin Cunningham said. Mary Anderson is up there now. 

Have you good artists? 

— Louis Werner is touring her, Mr Bloom said. O yes, we'll have all topnobbers. J. C. Doyle and 
John MacCormack I hope and. The best, in fact. 

— And Madame, Mr Power said smiling. Last but not least. 

Mr Bloom unclasped his hands in a gesture of soft politeness and clasped them Smith O'Brien. 
Someone has laid a bunch of flowers there. Woman. Must be his deathday. For many happy returns. 
The carriage wheeling by Farrell's statue united noise lessfy their unresisting knees. 

Oot: a dullgarbed old man from the curbstone tendered his wares, his mouth opening: oot. 

— Four bootlaces for a penny. 

Wonder why he was struck off the rolls. Had his office in Hume street. Same house as Molly's 
namesake, Tweedy, crown solicitor for Waterford. Has that silk hat ever since. Relics of old decency. 
Mourning too. Terrible comedown, poor wretch! Kicked about like snuff at awake. O'Callaghan on 
his last legs. 

And Madame. Twenty past eleven. Up. Mrs Fleming is in to clean. Doing her hair, humming 
voglio e non vorrei. No. vorrei e non. Looking at the tips of her hairs to see if they are split. Mi 
trema un poco il. Beautiful on that tre her voice is: weeping tone. A thrush. A throstle. There is a 
word throstle that expresses that. 

His eyes passed lightly over Mr Power's goodlooking face. Greyish over the ears. Madame: 
smiling. I smiled back. A smile goes a long way. Only politeness perhaps. Nice fellow. Who knows is 
that true about the woman he keeps? Not pleasant for the wife. Yet they say, who was it told me, 
there is no carnal. You would imagine that would get played out pretty quick. Yes, it was Crofton met 
him one evening bringing her a pound of rumpsteak What is this she was? Barmaid in Jury's. Or the 
Moira, was it? 

They passed under the hugecloaked Liberator's form 

Martin Cunningham nudged Mr Power. 

— Ofthe tribe of Reuben, he said. 

A tall blackbearded figure, bent on a stick, stumping round the comer of Elvery's Elephant house, 
showed them a curved hand open on his spine. 

— In all his pristine beauty, Mr Power said. 

Mr Dedahis looked after the stumping figure and said mildly: 

— The devil break the hasp of your back! 

Mr Power, collapsing in laughter, shaded his face from the window as the carriage passed Gray's 
statue. 

— We have all been there, Martin Cunningham said broadly. 

His eyes met Mr Bloom's eyes. He caressed his beard, adding: 

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— Well, nearly all of us. 

Mr Bloom began to speak with sudden eagerness to his companions' faces. 

— That's an awfully good one that's going the rounds about Reuben J and the son. 

— About the boatman? Mr Power asked. 

— Yes. Isn't it awfully good? 

— What is that? Mr DedaLis asked. I didn't hear it. 

— There was a girl in the case, Mr Bloom began, and he determined to send him to the Isle of Man 
out of harm's way but when they were both ... 

— What? Mr DedaLis asked. That confirmed bloody hobbledehoy is it? 

— Yes, Mr Bloom said. They were both on the way to the boat and he tried to drown. . . 

— Drown Barabbas! Mr DedaLis cried. I wish to Christ he did! 

Mr Power sent a long laugh down his shaded nostrils. 

— No, Mr Bloom said, the son himself .. 

Martin Cunningham thwarted his speech rudely: 

— Reuben and the son were piking it down the quay next the river on their way to the Isle of Man 
boat and the young chiseller suddenly got loose and over the wall with him into the Liffey. 

— For God's sake! Mr DedaLis exclaimed in fright. Is he dead? 

— Dead! Martin Cunningham cried. Not he! A boatman got a pole and fished him out by the slack 
of the breeches and he was landed up to the father on the quay more dead than alive. Half the town 
was there. 

— Yes, Mr Bloom said. But the funny part is... 

— And Reuben J, Martin Cunningham said, gave the boatman a florin for saving his son's life. 

A stifled sigh came from under Mr Power's hand. 

— O, he did, Martin Cunningham affirmed. Like a hero. A silver florin. 

— Isn't it awfully good? Mr Bloom said eagerly. 

— One and eightpence too much, Mr DedaLis said drily. 

Mr Power's choked laugh burst quietly in the carriage. 

Nelson's pillar. 

— Eight plums a penny! Eight for a penny! 

— We had better look a little serious, Martin Cunningham said. 

Mr DedaLis sighed. 

— Ah then indeed, he said, poor little Paddy wouldn't grudge us a laugh Many a good one he told 
himself 

— The Lord forgive me! Mr Power said, wiping his wet eyes with his fingers. Poor Paddy! I little 

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thought a week ago when I saw him last and he was in his usual health that I'd be driving after him like 
this. He's gone from us. 

— As decent a little man as ever wore a hat, Mr Dedatus said. He went very suddenly. 

— Breakdown, Martin Cunningham said. Heart. 

He tapped his chest sadly. 

Blazing face: redhot. Too much John Barleycorn. Cure for a red nose. Drink like the devil till it turns 
adelite. A lot of money he spent colouring it. 

Mr Power gazed at the passing houses with rueful apprehension. 

— He had a sudden death poor fellow, he said. 

— The best death, Mr Bloom said. 

Their wide open eyes looked at him 

— No suffering, he said. A moment and all is over. Like dying in sleep. 

No-one spoke. 

Dead side of the street this. Dull business by day, land agents, temperance hotel, Falconer's railway 
guide, civil service college, Gill's, catholic club, the industrious blind. Why? Some reason. Sun or wind. 
At night too. Chummies and slaveys. Under the patronage of the late Father Mathew. Foundation 
stone for Parnell Breakdown. Heart. 

White horses with white frontlet plumes came round the Rotunda corner, galloping. A tiny coffin 
flashed by. In a hurry to bury. A mourning coach. Unmarried. Black for the married. Piebald for 
bachelors. Dun for a nun 

— Sad, Martin Cunningham said. A child. 

A dwarfs face, mauve and wrinkled like little Rudy's was. Dwarfs body, weak as putty, in a 
whitelined deal box. Burial friendly society pays. Penny a week for a sod of turf Our. Little. Beggar. 
Baby. Meant nothing. Mistake of nature. If it's healthy it's from the mother. If not from the man Better 
tuck next time. 

— Poor little thing, Mr Dedatus said. It's well out of it. 

The carriage climbed more slowly the hill of Rutland square. Rattle his bones. Over the stones. Only 
a pauper. Nobody owns. 

— In the midst of life, Martin Cunningham said. 

— But the worst of all, Mr Power said, is the man who takes his own life. 

Martin Cunningham drew out his watch briskly, coughed and put it back. 

— The greatest disgrace to have in the family, Mr Power added. 

— Temporary insanity, of course, Martin Cunningham said decisively. We must take a charitable 
view of it. 

— They say a man who does it is a coward, Mr Dedatus said. 

— It is not for us to judge, Martin Cunningham said. 

Mr Bloom, about to speak, closed his lips again Martin Cunningham's large eyes. Looking away 

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now. Sympathetic human man he is. Intelligent. Like Shakespeare's face. Always a good word to say. 
They have no mercy on that here or infanticide. Refuse christian burial. They used to drive a stake of 
wood through his heart in the grave. As if it wasn't broken already. Yet sometimes they repent too 
late. Found in the riverbed clutching rushes. He looked at me. And that awful drunkard of a wife of 
his. Setting up house for her time after time and then pawning the furniture on him every Saturday 
almost. Leading him the life of the damned. Wear the heart out of a stone, that. Monday morning. 
Start afresh. Shoulder to the wheel. Lord, she must have looked a sight that night Dedalus told me he 
was in there. Drunk about the place and capering with Martin's umbrella. 

And they call me the jewel of Asia, 
Of Asia, 
The Geisha. 

He looked away from me. He knows. Rattle his bones. 

That afternoon of the inquest. The redlabelled bottle on the table. The room in the hotel with hunting 
pictures. Stuffy it was. Sunlight through the slats of the Venetian blind. The coroner's sunlit ears, big 
and hairy. Boots giving evidence. Thought he was asleep first. Then saw like yellow streaks on his 
face. Had slipped down to the foot of the bed. Verdict: overdose. Death by misadventure. The letter. 
For my son Leopold. 

No more pain Wake no more. Nobody owns. 

The carriage rattled swiftly along Blessington street. Over the stones. 

— We are going the pace, I think, Martin Cunningham said. 

— God grant he doesn't upset us on the road, Mr Power said. 

— I hope not, Martin Cunningham said. That will be a great race tomorrow in Germany. The 
Gordon Bennett. 

— Yes, by Jove, Mr Dedalus said. That will be worth seeing, faith. 

As they turned into Berkeley street a streetorgan near the Basin sent over and after them a rollicking 
rattling song of the halls. Has anybody here seen Kelfy? Kay ee double ell wy. Dead March from 
Saul. He's as bad as old Antonio. He left me on my ownio. Pirouette! The Mater Misericordiae. 
Eccles street. My house down there. Big place. Ward for incurables there. Very encouraging. Our 
Lady's Hospice for the dying. Deadhouse handy underneath. Where old Mrs Riordan died. They look 
terrible the women. Her feeding cup and rubbing her mouth with the spoon. Then the screen round her 
bed for her to die. Nice young student that was dressed that bite the bee gave me. He's gone over to 
the lying-in hospital they told me. From one extreme to the other. The carriage galloped round a 
corner: stopped. 

— What's wrong now? 

A divided drove of branded cattle passed the windows, lowing, slouching by on padded hoofs, 
whisking their tails slowly on their clotted bony croups. Outside them and through them ran raddled 
sheep bleating their fear. 

— Emigrants, Mr Power said. 

— Huuuh! the drover's voice cried, his switch sounding on their flanks. 

Huuuh! out of that! 

Thursday, of course. Tomorrow is killing day. Springers. Cuffe sold them about twentyseven quid 

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each. For Liverpool probably. Roastbeef for old England. They buy up all the juicy ones. And then the 
fifth quarter lost: all that raw stuff, hide, hair, horns. Comes to a big thing in a year. Dead meat trade. 
Byproducts of the slaughterhouses for tanneries, soap, margarine. Wonder if that dodge works now 
getting dicky meat off the train at Clonsilla. 

The carriage moved on through the drove. 

— I can't make out why the corporation doesn't run a tramline from the parkgate to the quays, Mr 
Bloom said. All those animals could be taken in trucks down to the boats. 

— Instead of blocking up the thoroughfare, Martin Cunningham said. Quite right. They ought to. 

— Yes, Mr Bloom said, and another thing I often thought, is to have municipal funeral trams like 
they have in Milan, you know. Run the line out to the cemetery gates and have special trams, hearse 
and carriage and all Don't you see what I mean? 

— O, that be damned for a story, Mr Dedalus said. Pullman car and saloon diningroom 

— A poor lookout for Corny, Mr Power added. 

— Why? Mr Bloom asked, turning to Mr Dedalus. Wouldn't it be more decent than galloping two 
abreast? 

— Well, there's something in that, Mr Dedalus granted. 

— And, Martin Cunningham said, we wouldn't have scenes like that when the hearse capsized 
round Dunphy's and upset the coffin on to the road. 

— That was terrible, Mr Power's shocked face said, and the corpse fell about the road. Terrible! 

— First round Dunphy's, Mr Dedalus said, nodding. Gordon Bennett cup. 

— Praises be to God! Martin Cunningham said piously. 

Bom! Upset. A coffin bumped out on to the road. Burst open. Paddy Dignam shot out and rolling 
over stiff in the dust in a brown habit too large for him Red face: grey now. Mouth fallen open. Asking 
what's up now. Quite right to close it. Looks horrid open. Then the insides decompose quickly. Much 
better to close up all the orifices. Yes, also. With wax. The sphincter loose. Seal up all 

— Dunphy's, Mr Power announced as the carriage turned right. 

Dunphy's comer. Mourning coaches drawn up, drowning their grief A pause by the wayside. 
Tiptop position for a pub. Expect we'll pull up here on the way back to drink his health. Pass round 
the consolation. Elixir of life. 

But suppose now it did happen. Would he bleed if a nail say cut him in the knocking about? He 
would and he wouldn't, I suppose. Depends on where. The circulation stops. Still some might ooze 
out of an artery. It would be better to bury them in red: a dark red. 

In silence they drove along Phibsborough road. An empty hearse trotted by, coming from the 
cemetery: looks relieved. 

Crossguns bridge: the royal canal. 

Water rushed roaring through the sluices. A man stood on his dropping barge, between clamps of 
turf On the towpathby the lock a slacktethered horse. Aboard of the Bugabu. 

Their eyes watched him On the slow weedy waterway he had floated on his raft coastward over 
Ireland drawn by a haulage rope past beds of reeds, over slime, mudchoked bottles, carrion dogs. 

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Athlone, Mullingar, Moyvalley, I could make a walking tour to see Milry by the canal. Or cycle down. 
Hire some old crock, safety. Wren had one the other day at the auction but a lady's. Developing 
waterways. James M'Cann's hobby to row me o'er the ferry. Cheaper transit. By easy stages. 
Houseboats. Camping out. Also hearses. To heaven by water. Perhaps I will without writing Come as 
a surprise, Leixlip, Clonsilla. Dropping down lock by lock to Dublin. With turf from the midland bogs. 
Salute. He lifted his brown straw hat, saluting Paddy Dignam 

They drove on past Brian Boroimhe house. Near it now. 

— I wonder how is our friend Fogarty getting on, Mr Power said. 

— Better ask Tom Kernan, Mr Dedalus said. 

— How is that? Martin Cunningham said. Left him weeping, I suppose? 

— Though lost to sight, Mr Dedalus said, to memory dear. 

The carriage steered left for Finglas road. 

The stonecutter's yard on the right. Last lap. Crowded on the spit of land silent shapes appeared, 
white, sorrowful, holding out calm hands, knelt in grief, pointing. Fragments of shapes, hewn. In white 
silence: appealing. The best obtainable. Thos. H. Dennany, monumental builder and sculptor. 

Passed. 

On the curbstone before Jimmy Geary, the sexton's, an old tramp sat, grumbling, emptying the dirt 
and stones out of his huge dustbrown yawning boot. After life's journey 

Gloomy gardens then went by: one by one: gloomy houses. 

Mr Power pointed. 

— That is where Childs was murdered, he said. The last house. 

— So it is, Mr Dedalus said. A gruesome case. Seymour Bushe got him off Murdered his brother. 
Or so they said. 

— The crown had no evidence, Mr Power said. 

— Only circumstantial, Martin Cunningham added. That's the maxim of the law. Better for 
ninetynine guilty to escape than for one innocent person to be wrongfully condemned. 

They looked. Murderer's ground. It passed darkly. Shuttered, tenantless, unweeded garden Whole 
place gone to hell Wrongfully condemned. Murder. The murderer's image in the eye of the murdered. 
They love reading about it. Man's head found in a garden. Her clothing consisted of How she met her 
death. Recent outrage. The weapon used. Murderer is still at large. Clues. A shoelace. The body to 
be exhumed. Murder will out. 

Cramped in this carriage. She mightn't like me to come that way without letting her know. Must be 
careful about women Catch them once with their pants down. Never forgive you after. Fifteen. 

The high railings of Prospect rippled past their gaze. Dark poplars, rare white forms. Forms more 
frequent, white shapes thronged amid the trees, white forms and fragments streaming by mutely, 
sustaining vain gestures on the air. 

The felly harshed against the curbstone: stopped. Martin Cunningham put out his arm and, 
wrenching back the handle, shoved the door open with his knee. He stepped out. Mr Power and Mr 
Dedalus followed. 

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Change that soap now. Mr Bloom's hand unbuttoned his hip pocket swiftly and transferred the 
paperstuck soap to his inner handkerchief pocket. He stepped out of the carriage, replacing the 
newspaper his other hand still held. 

Paltry funeral: coach and three carriages. It's all the same. Pallbearers, gold reins, requiem mass, 
firing a volley. Pomp of death. Beyond the hind carriage a hawker stood by his barrow of cakes and 
fruit. Simnel cakes those are, stuck together: cakes for the dead. Dogbiscuits. Who ate them? 
Mourners coming out. 

He followed his companions. Mr Kernan and Ned Lambert followed, Hynes walking after them. 
Corny Kelleher stood by the opened hearse and took out the two wreaths. He handed one to the boy. 

Where is that child's ftineral disappeared to? 

A team of horses passed from Fingjas with toiling plodding tread, dragging through the funereal 
silence a creaking waggon on which lay a granite block. The waggoner marching at their head saluted. 

Coffin now. Got here before us, dead as he is. Horse looking round at it with his plume 
skeowways. Dull eye: collar tight on his neck, pressing on a bloodvessel or something. Do they know 
what they cart out here every day? Must be twenty or thirty funerals every day. Then Mount Jerome 
for the protestants. Funerals all over the world everywhere every minute. Shovelling them under by the 
cartload doublequick. Thousands every hour. Too many in the world. 

Mourners came out through the gates: woman and a girl. Leanjawed harpy, hard woman at a 
bargain, her bonnet awry. Girl's face stained with dirt and tears, holding the woman's arm, looking up 
at her for a sign to cry. Fish's face, bloodless and livid. 

The mutes shouldered the coffin and bore it in through the gates. So much dead weight. Felt heavier 
myself stepping out of that bath. First the stiff: then the friends of the stiff Corny Kelleher and the boy 
followed with their wreaths. Who is that beside them? Ah, the brother-in-law. 

All walked after. 

Martin Cunningham whispered: 

— I was in mortal agony with you talking of suicide before Bloom 

— What? Mr Power whispered. How so? 

— His father poisoned himself, Martin Cunningham whispered. Had the Queen's hotel in Ennis. You 
heard him say he was going to Clare. Anniversary. 

— O God! Mr Power whispered. First I heard of it. Poisoned himself? 

He glanced behind him to where a face with dark thinking eyes followed towards the cardinal's 
mausoleum Speaking. 

— Was he insured? Mr Bloom asked. 

— I believe so, Mr Kernan answered. But the policy was heavily mortgaged. Martin is trying to get 
the youngster into Artane. 

— How many children did he leave? 

— Five. Ned Lambert says he'll try to get one of the girls into Todd's. 

— A sad case, Mr Bloom said gentry. Five young children. 

— A great blow to the poor wife, Mr Kernan added. 

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— Indeed yes, Mr Bloom agreed. 

Has the laugh at him now. 

He looked down at the boots he had blacked and polished. She had outlived him Lost her 
husband. More dead for her than for me. One must outlive the other. Wise men say. There are more 
women than men in the world. Condole with her. Your terrible loss. I hope you'll soon follow him For 
Hindu widows only. She would marry another. Him? No. Yet who knows after. Widowhood not the 
thing since the old queen died. Drawn on a guncarriage. Victoria and Albert. Frogmore memorial 
mourning. But in the end she put a few violets in her bonnet. Vain in her heart of hearts. All for a 
shadow. Consort not even a king. Her son was the substance. Something new to hope for not like the 
past she wanted back, waiting. It never comes. One must go first: alone, under the ground: and lie no 
more in her warm bed. 

— How are you, Simon? Ned Lambert said softly, clasping hands. Haven't seen you for a month of 
Sundays. 

— Never better. How are all in Cork's own town? 

— I was down there for the Cork park races on Easter Monday, Ned Lambert said. Same old six 
and eightpence. Stopped with Dick Tivy. 

— And how is Dick, the solid man? 

— Nothing between himself and heaven, Ned Lambert answered. 

— By the holy Paul! Mr Dedakis said in subdued wonder. Dick Tivy bald? 

— Martin is going to get up a whip for the youngsters, Ned Lambert said, pointing ahead. A few 
bob a skull. Just to keep them going till the insurance is cleared up. 

— Yes, yes, Mr Dedakis said dubiously. Is that the eldest boy in front? 

— Yes, Ned Lambert said, with the wife's brother. John Henry Menton is behind. He put down his 
name for a quid. 

— I'll engage he did, Mr Dedakis said. I often told poor Paddy he ought to mind that job. John 
Henry is not the worst in the world. 

— How did he lose it? Ned Lambert asked. Liquor, what? 

— Many a good man's fault, Mr Dedakis said with a sigh. 

They halted about the door of the mortuary chapeL Mr Bloom stood behind the boy with the 
wreath looking down at his sleekcombed hair and at the slender furrowed neck inside his brandnew 
collar. Poor boy! Was he there when the father? Both unconscious. Lighten up at the last moment and 
recognise for the last time. All he might have done. I owe three shillings to O'Grady. Would he 
understand? The mutes bore the coffin into the chapeL Which end is his head? 

After a moment he followed the others in, blinking in the screened light. The coffin lay on its bier 
before the chancel, four tall yellow candles at its comers. Always in front of us. Corny Kelleher, laying 
a wreath at each fore corner, beckoned to the boy to kneeL The mourners knelt here and there in 
prayingdesks. Mr Bloom stood behind near the font and, when all had knelt, dropped carefully his 
unfolded newspaper from his pocket and knelt his right knee upon it. He fitted his black hat gently on 
his left knee and, holding its brim, bent over piously. 

A server bearing a brass bucket with something in it came out through a door. The whitesmocked 
priest came after him, tidying his stole with one hand, balancing with the other a little book against his 

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toad's belly. Who'll read the book? I, said the rook. 

They halted by the bier and the priest began to read out of his book with a fluent croak. 

Father Coffey. I knew his name was like a coffin. Domine-namine. Bully about the muzzle he 
looks. Bosses the show. Muscular christian. Woe betide anyone that looks crooked at him priest. 
Thou art Peter. Burst sideways like a sheep in clover Dedahis says he will With a belly on him like a 
poisoned pup. Most amusing expressions that man finds. Hhhn: burst sideways. 

— Non intres in judicium cum servo tuo, Domine. 

Makes them feel more important to be prayed over in Latin. Requiem mass. Crape weepers. 
Blackedged notepaper. Your name on the altarlist. Chilly place this. Want to feed well, sitting in there 
all the morning in the gloom kicking his heels waiting for the next please. Eyes of a toad too. What 
swells him up that way? Molly gets swelled after cabbage. Air of the place maybe. Looks full up of 
bad gas. Must be an infernal lot of bad gas round the place. Butchers, for instance: they get like raw 
beefsteaks. Who was telling me? Mervyn Browne. Down in the vaults of saint Werburgh's lovely old 
organ hundred and fifty they have to bore a hole in the coffins sometimes to let out the bad gas and 
burn it. Out it rushes: blue. One whiff of that and you're a goner. 

My kneecap is hurting me. Ow. That's better. 

The priest took a stick with a knob at the end of it out of the boy's bucket and shook it over the 
coffin Then he walked to the other end and shook it again. Then he came back and put it back in the 
bucket. As you were before you rested. It's all written down: he has to do it. 

— Et ne nos inducas in tentationem. 

The server piped the answers in the treble. I often thought it would be better to have boy servants. 
Up to fifteen or so. After that, of course ... 

Holy water that was, I expect. Shaking sleep out of it. He must be fed up with that job, shaking that 
thing over all the corpses they trot up. What harm if he could see what he was shaking it over. Every 
mortal day a fresh batch: middleaged men, old women, children, women dead in childbirth, men with 
beards, baldheaded businessmen, consumptive girls with little sparrows' breasts. All the year round he 
prayed the same thing over them all and shook water on top of them sleep. On Dignam now. 

— In paradisum. 

Said he was going to paradise or is in paradise. Says that over everybody. Tiresome kind of a job. 
But he has to say something. 

The priest closed his book and went off, followed by the server. Corny Kelleher opened the 
sidedoors and the gravediggers came in, hoisted the coffin again, carried it out and shoved it on their 
cart. Corny Kelleher gave one wreath to the boy and one to the brother-in-law. All followed them out 
of the sidedoors into the mild grey air. Mr Bloom came last folding his paper again into his pocket. He 
gazed gravely at the ground till the coffincart wheeled off to the left. The metal wheels ground the 
gravel with a sharp grating cry and the pack of blunt boots followed the trundled barrow along a lane 
of sepulchres. 

The ree the ra the ree the ra the roo. Lord, I mustn't lilt here. 

— The O'Connell circle, Mr Dedahis said about him 

Mr Power's soft eyes went up to the apex of the lofty cone. 

— He's at rest, he said, in the middle of his people, old Dan O'. But his heart is buried in Rome. 
How many broken hearts are buried here, Simon! 

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— Her grave is over there, Jack, Mr Dedalus said. I'll soon be stretched beside her. Let Him take 
me whenever He likes. 

Breaking down, he began to weep to himself quietly, stumbling a little in his walk. Mr Power took 
his arm 

— She's better where she is, he said kindly. 

— I suppose so, Mr Dedalus said with a weak gasp. I suppose she is in heaven if there is a heaven. 

Corny Kelleher stepped aside from his rank and allowed the mourners to plod by. 

— Sad occasions, Mr Kernan began politely. 

Mr Bloom closed his eyes and sadly twice bowed his head. 

— The others are putting on their hats, Mr Kernan said. I suppose we can do so too. We are the 
last. This cemetery is a treacherous place. 

They covered their heads. 

— The reverend gentleman read the service too quickly, don't you think? Mr Kernan said with 
reproof 

Mr Bloom nodded gravely looking in the quick bloodshot eyes. Secret eyes, secretsearching 
Mason, I think: not sure. Beside him again. We are the last. In the same boat. Hope he'll say 
something else. 

Mr Kernan added: 

— The service of the Irish church used in Mount Jerome is simpler, more impressive I must say. 

Mr Bloom gave prudent assent. The language of course was another thing 

Mr Kernan said with solemnity: 

— I am the resurrection and the life. That touches a man's inmost heart. 

— It does, Mr Bloom said. 

Your heart perhaps but what price the fellow in the six feet by two with his toes to the daisies? No 
touching that. Seat of the affections. Broken heart. A pump after all, pumping thousands of gallons of 
blood every day. One fine day it gets bunged up: and there you are. Lots of them lying around here: 
Lings, hearts, livers. Old rusty pumps: damn the thing else. The resurrection and the life. Once you are 
dead you are dead. That last day idea. Knocking them all up out of their graves. Come forth, Lazarus! 
And he came fifth and lost the job. Get up! Last day! Then every fellow mousing around for his liver 
and his lights and the rest of his traps. Find damn all of himself that morning. Pennyweight of powder in 
a skull Twelve grammes one pennyweight. Troy measure. 

Corny Kelleher fell into step at their side. 

— Everything went off Al, he said. What? 

He looked on them from his drawling eye. Policeman's shoulders. With your tooraloom tooraloom. 

— As it should be, Mr Kernan said. 

—What? Eh? Corny Kelleher said. 

Mr Kernan assured him. 

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— Who is that chap behind with Tom Kernan? John Henry Menton asked. I know his face. 

Ned Lambert glanced back. 

— Bloom, he said, Madame Marion Tweedy that was, is, I mean, the soprano. She's his wife. 

— O, to be sure, John Henry Menton said. I haven't seen her for some time. He was a finelooking 
woman. I danced with her, wait, fifteen seventeen golden years ago, at Mat Dillon's in Roundtown 
And a good armful she was. 

He looked behind through the others. 

— What is he? he asked. What does he do? Wasn't he in the stationery line? I fell foul of him one 
evening, I remember, at bowls. 

Ned Lambert smiled. 

— Yes, he was, he said, in Wisdom Hefy's. A traveller for blottingpaper. 

— In God's name, John Henry Menton said, what did she marry a coon like that for? She had 
plenty of game in her then. 

— Has still, Ned Lambert said. He does some canvassing for ads. 

John Henry Menton's large eyes stared ahead. 

The barrow turned into a side lane. A portly man, ambushed among the grasses, raised his hat in 
homage. The gravediggers touched their caps. 

— John O'Connell, Mr Power said pleased. He never forgets a friend. 

Mr O'Connell shook all their hands in silence. Mr Dedalus said: 

— I am come to pay you another visit. 

— My dear Simon, the caretaker answered in a low voice. I don't want your custom at all 

Saluting Ned Lambert and John Henry Menton he walked on at Martin Cunningham's side puzzling 
two long keys at his back. 

— Did you hear that one, he asked them, about Mulcahy from the Coombe? 

— I did not, Martin Cunningham said. 

They bent their silk hats in concert and Hynes inclined his ear. The caretaker hung his thumbs in the 
loops of his gold watchchain and spoke in a discreet tone to their vacant smiles. 

— They tell the story, he said, that two drunks came out here one foggy evening to look for the 
grave of a friend of theirs. They asked for Mulcahy from the Coombe and were told where he was 
buried. After traipsing about in the fog they found the grave sure enough. One of the drunks spelt out 
the name: Terence Mulcahy. The other drunk was blinking up at a statue of Our Saviour the widow 
had got put up. 

The caretaker blinked up at one of the sepulchres they passed. He resumed: 

— And, after blinking up at the sacred figure, Not a bloody bit like the man, says he. That's not 
Mulcahy, says he, whoever done it. 

Rewarded by smiles he fell back and spoke with Corny Kelleher, accepting the dockets given him, 
turning them over and scanning them as he walked. 

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— That's all done with a purpose, Martin Cunningham explained to Hynes. 

— I know, Hynes said. I know that. 

— To cheer a fellow up, Martin Cunningham said. It's pure goodheartedness: damn the thing else. 

Mr Bloom admired the caretaker's prosperous bulk. All want to be on good terms with him. 
Decent fellow, John O'Connell, real good sort. Keys: like Keyes's ad: no fear of anyone getting out. 
No passout checks. Habeas corpus. I must see about that ad after the funeral. Did I write Ballsbridge 
on the envelope I took to cover when she disturbed me writing to Martha? Hope it's not chucked in 
the dead letter office. Be the better of a shave. Grey sprouting beard. That's the first sign when the 
hairs come out grey. And temper getting cross. Silver threads among the grey. Fancy being his wife. 
Wonder he had the gumption to propose to any girl. Come out and live in the graveyard. Dangle that 
before her. It might thrill her first. Courting death... Shades of night hovering here with all the dead 
stretched about. The shadows of the tombs when churchyards yawn and Daniel O'Connell must be a 
descendant I suppose who is this used to say he was a queer breedy man great catholic all the same 
like a big giant in the dark. Will o' the wisp. Gas of graves. Want to keep her mind off it to conceive at 
all Women especially are so touchy. Tell her a ghost story in bed to make her sleep. Have you ever 
seen a ghost? Well, I have. It was a pitchdark night. The clock was on the stroke of twelve. Still 
they'd kiss all right if properly keyed up. Whores in Turkish graveyards. Learn anything if taken young. 
You might pick up a young widow here. Men like that. Love among the tombstones. Romeo. Spice of 
pleasure. In the midst of death we are in life. Both ends meet. Tantalising for the poor dead. Smell of 
grilled beefsteaks to the starving. Gnawing their vitals. Desire to grig people. Molly wanting to do it at 
the window. Eight children he has anyway. 

He has seen a fair share go under in his time, lying around him field after field. Holy fields. More 
room if they buried them standing. Sitting or kneeling you couldn't. Standing? His head might come up 
some day above ground in a landslip with his hand pointing. All honeycombed the ground must be: 
oblong cells. And very neat he keeps it too: trim grass and edgings. His garden Major Gamble calls 
Mount Jerome. Well, so it is. Ought to be flowers of sleep. Chinese cemeteries with giant poppies 
growing produce the best opium Mastiansky told me. The Botanic Gardens are just over there. It's the 
blood sinking in the earth gives new life. Same idea those jews they said killed the christian boy. Every 
man his price. Well preserved fat corpse, gentleman, epicure, invaluable for fruit garden. A bargain. 
By carcass of William Wilkinson, auditor and accountant, lately deceased, three pounds thirteen and 
six. With thanks. 

I daresay the soil would be quite fat with corpsemanure, bones, flesh nails. Charnelhouses. 
Dreadful Turning green and pink decomposing. Rot quick in damp earth. The lean old ones tougher. 
Then a kind of a tallowy kind of a cheesy. Then begin to get black, black treacle oozing out of them 
Then dried up. Deathmoths. Of course the cells or whatever they are go on living. Changing about. 
Live for ever practically. Nothing to feed on feed on themselves. 

But they must breed a devil of a lot of maggots. Soil must be simply swirling with them. Your head it 
simply swurls. Those pretty little seaside gurls. He looks cheerful enough over it. Gives him a sense of 
power seeing all the others go under first. Wonder how he looks at life. Cracking his jokes too: warms 
the cockles of his heart. The one about the bulletin. Spurgeon went to heaven 4 a.m. this morning. 1 1 
p.m (closing time). Not arrived yet. Peter. The dead themselves the men anyhow would like to hear 
an odd joke or the women to know what's in fashion. A juicy pear or ladies' punch, hot, strong and 
sweet. Keep out the damp. You must laugh sometimes so better do it that way. Gravediggers in 
Hamlet, Shows the profound knowledge of the human heart. Daren't joke about the dead for two 
years at least. De mortuis nil nisiprius. Go out of mourning first. Hard to imagine his funeral Seems 
a sort of a joke. Read your own obituary notice they say you live longer. Gives you second wind. 
New lease of life. 

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— How many have-you for tomorrow? the caretaker asked. 

— Two, Corny Kelleher said. Half ten and eleven. 

The caretaker put the papers in his pocket. The barrow had ceased to trundle. The mourners split 
and moved to each side of the hole, stepping with care round the graves. The gravediggers bore the 
coffin and set its nose on the brink, looping the bands round it. 

Burying him We come to bury Caesar. His ides of March or June. He doesn't know who is here 
nor care. Now who is that lankylooking galoot over there in the macintosh? Now who is he I'd like to 
know? Now I'd give a trifle to know who he is. Always someone turns up you never dreamt of A 
fellow could live on his lonesome all his life. Yes, he could. Still he'd have to get someone to sod him 
after he died though he could dig his own grave. We all do. Only man buries. No, ants too. First thing 
strikes anybody. Bury the dead. Say Robinson Crusoe was true to life. Well then Friday buried him 
Every Friday buries a Thursday if you come to look at it. 

O, poor Robinson Crusoe! 
How could you possibly do so? 

Poor Dignam! His last lie on the earth in his box. When you think of them all it does seem a waste 
of wood. All gnawed through. They could invent a handsome bier with a kind of panel sliding, let it 
down that way. Ay but they might object to be buried out of another fellow's. They're so particular. 
Lay me in my native earth. Bit of clay from the holy land. Only a mother and deadborn child ever 
buried in the one coffin. I see what it means. I see. To protect him as long as possible even in the 
earth The Irishman's house is his coffin. Embalming in catacombs, mummies the same idea. 

Mr Bloom stood far back, his hat in his hand, counting the bared heads. Twelve. I'm thirteen. No. 
The chap in the macintosh is thirteen Death's number. Where the deuce did he pop out of? He wasn't 
in the chapel, that I'll swear. Silly superstition that about thirteen 

Nice soft tweed Ned Lambert has in that suit. Tinge of purple. I had one like that when we lived in 
Lombard street west. Dressy fellow he was once. Used to change three suits in the day. Must get that 
grey suit of mine turned by Mesias. Hello. It's dyed. His wife I forgot he's not married or his landlady 
ought to have picked out those threads for him. 

The coffin dived out of sight, eased down by the men straddled on the gravetrestles. They struggled 
up and out: and all uncovered. Twenty. 

Pause. 

If we were all suddenly somebody else. 

Far away a donkey brayed. Rain No such ass. Never see a dead one, they say. Shame of death. 
They hide. Also poor papa went away. 

Gentle sweet air blew round the bared heads in a whisper. Whisper. The boy by the gravehead held 
his wreath with both hands staring quietly in the black open space. Mr Bloom moved behind the portly 
kindly caretaker. Wellcut frockcoat. Weighing them up perhaps to see which will go next. Well, it is a 
long rest. Feel no more. It's the moment you feeL Must be damned unpleasant. Can't believe it at first. 
Mistake must be: someone else. Try the house opposite. Wait, I wanted to. I haven't yet. Then 
darkened deathchamber. Light they want. Whispering around you Would you like to see a priest? 
Then rambling and wandering. Delirium all you hid all your life. The death struggle. His sleep is not 
naturaL Press his lower eyelid. Watching is his nose pointed is his jaw sinking are the soles of his feet 
yellow. Pull the pillow away and finish it off on the floor since he's doomed. Devil in that picture of 
sinner's death showing him a woman. Dying to embrace her in his shirt. Last act of Lucia. Shall i 
nevermore behold thee? Bam! He expires. Gone at last. People talk about you a bit: forget you. 

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Don't forget to pray for him. Remember him in your prayers. Even ParnelL Ivy day dying out. Then 
they follow: dropping into a hole, one after the other. 

We are praying now for the repose of his soul. Hoping you're well and not in hell. Nice change of 
air. Out of the ftyingpan of life into the fire of purgatory. 

Does he ever think of the hole waiting for himself? They say you do when you shiver in the sun. 
Someone walking over it. Caltooy's warning. Near you. Mine over there towards Finglas, the plot I 
bought. Mamma, poor mamma, and little Rudy. 

The gravediggers took up their spades and flung heavy clods of clay in on the coffin. Mr Bloom 
turned away his face. And if he was alive all the time? Whew! By jingo, that would be awful! No, no: 
he is dead, of course. Of course he is dead. Monday he died. They ought to have some law to pierce 
the heart and make sure or an electric clock or a telephone in the coffin and some kind of a canvas 
airhole. Flag of distress. Three days. Rather long to keep them in summer. Just as well to get shut of 
them as soon as you are sure there's no. 

The clay fell softer. Begin to be forgotten. Out of sight, out of mind. 

The caretaker moved away a few paces and put on his hat. Had enough of it. The mourners took 
heart of grace, one by one, covering themselves without show. Mr Bloom put on his hat and saw the 
portly figure make its way deftly through the maze of graves. Quietly, sure of his ground, he traversed 
the dismal fields. 

Hynes jotting down something in his notebook. Ah, the names. But he knows them all No: coming 
to me. 

— I am just taking the names, Hynes said below his breath. What is your christian name? I'm not 
sure. 

— L, Mr Bloom said. Leopold. And you might put down M'Coys name too. He asked me to. 

— Charley, Hynes said writing. I know. He was on the Freeman once. 

So he was before he got the job in the morgue under Louis Byrne. Good idea a postmortem for 
doctors. Find out what they imagine they know. He died of a Tuesday. Got the run Levanted with the 
cash of a few ads. Charley, you're my darling. That was why he asked me to. O weft, does no harm I 
saw to that, M'Coy. Thanks, old chap: much obliged. Leave him under an obligation: costs nothing. 

— And tell us, Hynes said, do you know that fellow in the, fellow was over there in the. . . 

He looked around. 

— Macintosh. Yes, I saw him, Mr Bloom said. Where is he now? 

— M'Intosh, Hynes said scribbling. I don't know who he is. Is that his name? 

He moved away, looking about him. 

— No, Mr Bloom began, turning and stopping. I say, Hynes! 

Didn't hear. What? Where has he disappeared to? Not a sign. Well of all the. Has anybody here 
seen? Kay ee double el. Become invisible. Good Lord, what became of him? 

A seventh gravedigger came beside Mr Bloom to take up an idle spade. 

— O, excuse me! 

He stepped aside nimbly. 

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Clay, brown, damp, began to be seen in the hole. It rose. Nearly over. A mound of damp clods 
rose more, rose, and the gravediggers rested their spades. All uncovered again for a few instants. The 
boy propped his wreath against a corner: the brother-in-law his on a lump. The gravediggers put on 
their caps and carried their earthy spades towards the barrow. Then knocked the blades lightly on the 
turf: clean One bent to pluck from the haft a long tuft of grass. One, leaving his mates, walked slowly 
on with shouldered weapon, its blade bhiegkncing. Silently at the gravehead another coiled the 
coffinband. His navelcord. The brother-in-law, turning away, placed something in his free hand. 
Thanks in silence. Sorry, sir: trouble. Headshake. I know that. For yourselves just. 

The mourners moved away slowly without aim, by devious paths, staying at whiles to read a name 
on a tomb. 

— Let us go round by the chiefs grave, Hynes said. We have time. 

— Let us, Mr Power said. 

They turned to the right, following their slow thoughts. With awe Mr Power's blank voice spoke: 

— Some say he is not in that grave at all That the coffin was filled with stones. That one day he will 
come again. 

Hynes shook his head. 

— Pame 11 will never come again, he said. He's there, all that was mortal of him. Peace to his ashes. 

Mr Bloom walked unheeded along his grove by saddened angels, crosses, broken pillars, family 
vaults, stone hopes praying with upcast eyes, old Ireland's hearts and hands. More sensible to spend 
the money on some charity for the living. Pray for the repose of the soul of Does anybody really? 
Plant him and have done with him Like down a coalshoot. Then lump them together to save time. All 
souls' day. Twentyseventh I'll be at his grave. Ten shillings for the gardener. He keeps it free of weeds. 
Old man himself Bent down double with his shears clipping. Near death's door. Who passed away. 
Who departed this life. As if they did it of their own accord. Got the shove, all of them Who kicked 
the bucket. More interesting if they told you what they were. So and So, wheelwright. I travelled for 
cork lino. I paid five shillings in the pound. Or a woman's with her saucepan. I cooked good Irish 
stew. Eulogy in a country churchyard it ought to be that poem of whose is it Wordsworth or Thomas 
Campbell Entered into rest the protestants put it. Old Dr Murren's. The great physician called him 
home. Well it's God's acre for them Nice country residence. Newly plastered and painted. Ideal spot 
to have a quiet smoke and read the Church Times. Marriage ads they never try to beautify. Rusty 
wreaths hung on knobs, garlands of bronzefoiL Better value that for the money. Still, the flowers are 
more poeticaL The other gets rather tiresome, never withering. Expresses nothing. Immortelles. 

A bird sat tamely perched on a poplar branch. Like stuffed. Like the wedding present alderman 
Hooper gave us. Hoo! Not a budge out of him Knows there are no catapults to let fly at him Dead 
animal even sadder. SiUy-Milry burying the little dead bird in the kitchen matchbox, a daisychain and 
bits of broken chainies on the grave. 

The Sacred Heart that is: showing it. Heart on his sleeve. Ought to be sideways and red it should be 
painted like a real heart. Ireland was dedicated to it or whatever that. Seems anything but pleased. 
Why this infliction? Would birds come then and peck like the boy with the basket of fruit but he said 
no because they ought to have been afraid of the boy. Apollo that was. 

How many! All these here once walked round Dublin. Faithful departed. As you are now so once 
were we. 

Besides how could you remember everybody? Eyes, walk, voice. Well, the voice, yes: 
gramophone. Have a gramophone in every grave or keep it in the house. After dinner on a Sunday. 

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Put on poor old greatgrandfather. Kraahraark! Hellohellohello amawfulryglad kraark 
awfiilrygladaseeagain hellohello amawf krpthsth. Remind you of the voice like the photograph reminds 
you of the face. Otherwise you couldn't remember the face after fifteen years, say. For instance who? 
For instance some fellow that died when I was in Wisdom Hefys. 

Rtststr! A rattle of pebbles. Wait. Stop! 

He looked down intently into a stone crypt. Some animal Wait. There he goes. 

An obese grey rat toddled along the side of the crypt, moving the pebbles. An old stager: 
greatgrandfather: he knows the ropes. The grey alive crushed itself in under the plinth, wriggled itself in 
under it. Good hidingplace for treasure. 

Who lives there? Are laid the remains of Robert Emery. Robert Emmet was buried here by 
torchlight, wasn't he? Making his rounds. 

Tail gone now. 

One of those chaps would make short work of a fellow. Pick the bones clean no matter who it was. 
Ordinary meat for them A corpse is meat gone bad. Well and what's cheese? Corpse of milk. I read 
in that Voyages in China that the Chinese say a white man smells like a corpse. Cremation better. 
Priests dead against it. Devilling for the other firm Wholesale burners and Dutch oven dealers. Time of 
the plague. Quicklime feverpits to eat them Lethal chamber. Ashes to ashes. Or bury at sea. Where is 
that Parsee tower of silence? Eaten by birds. Earth fire, water. Drowning they say is the pleasantest. 
See your whole life in a flash But being brought back to life no. Can't bury in the air however. Out of 
a flying machine. Wonder does the news go about whenever a fresh one is let down Underground 
communication. We learned that from them Wouldn't be surprised. Regular square feed for them 
Flies come before he's well dead. Got wind of Dignam They wouldn't care about the smell of it. 
Saltwhite crumbling mush of corpse: smell, taste like raw white turnips. 

The gates glimmered in front: still open. Back to the world again. Enough of this place. Brings you a 
bit nearer every time. Last time I was here was Mrs Sinico's funeral. Poor papa too. The love that 
kills. And even scraping up the earth at night with a lantern like that case I read of to get at fresh 
buried females or even putrefied with running gravesores. Give you the creeps after a bit. I will appear 
to you after death. You will see my ghost after death. My ghost will haunt you after death. There is 
another world after death named hell. I do not like that other world she wrote. No more do I. Plenty 
to see and hear and feel yet. Feel live warm beings near you. Let them sleep in their maggoty beds. 
They are not going to get me this innings. Warm beds: warm fulblooded life. 

Martin Cunningham emerged from a sidepath, talking gravely. 

Solicitor, I think. I know his face. Menton, John Henry, solicitor, commissioner for oaths and 
affidavits. Dignam used to be in his office. Mat Dillon's long ago. Jolly Mat. Convivial evenings. Cold 
fowl, cigars, the Tantalus glasses. Heart of gold really. Yes, Menton. Got his rag out that evening on 
the bowlinggreen because I sailed inside him Pure fluke of mine: the bias. Why he took such a rooted 
dislike to me. Hate at first sight. Molly and Floey Dillon linked under the lilactree, laughing. Fellow 
always like that, mortified if women are by. 

Got a dinge in the side of his hat. Carriage probably. 

— Excuse me, sir, Mr Bloom said beside them 

They stopped. 

— Your hat is a little crushed, Mr Bloom said pointing. 

John Henry Menton stared at him for an instant without moving. 

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— There, Martin Cunningham helped, pointing also. John Henry Menton took offhis hat, bulged out 
the dinge and smoothed the nap with care on his coatsleeve. He clapped the hat on his head again. 

— It's all right now, Martin Cunningham said. 

John Henry Menton jerked his head down in acknowledgment. 

— Thank you, he said shortly. 

They walked on towards the gates. Mr Bloom, chapfallen, drew behind a few paces so as not to 
overhear. Martin laying down the law. Martin could wind a sappyhead like that round his little finger, 
without his seeing it. 

Oyster eyes. Never mind. Be sorry after perhaps when it dawns on him Get the pull over him that 
way. 

Thank you How grand we are this morning! 

IN THE HEART OF THE HIBERNIAN METROPOLIS 

Before Nelson's pillar trams slowed, shunted, changed trolley, started for Blackrock, Kingstown 
and Dalkey, Clonskea, Rathgar and Terenure, Pahnerston Park and upper Rathmines, Sandymount 
Green, Rathmines, Ringsend and Sandymount Tower, Harold's Cross. The hoarse Dublin United 
Tramway Company's timekeeper bawled them off: 

— Rathgar and Terenure! 

— Come on, Sandymount Green! 

Right and left parallel clanging ringing a doubledecker and a singledeck moved from their railheads, 
swerved to the down line, glided paralleL 

— Start, Palmerston Park! 

THE WEARER OF THE CROWN 

Under the porch of the general post office shoeblacks called and polished. Parked in North Prince's 
street His Majesty's vermilion mailcars, bearing on their sides the royal initials, E. R, received loudly 
flung sacks of letters, postcards, lettercards, parcels, insured and paid, for local, provincial, British and 
overseas delivery. 

GENTLEMEN OF THE PRESS 

Grossbooted draymen rolled barrels dullthudding out of Prince's stores and bumped them up on the 
brewery float. On the brewery float bumped dullthudding barrels rolled by grossbooted draymen out 
of Prince's stores. 

— There it is, Red Murray said. Alexander Keyes. 

— Just cut it out, will you? Mr Bloom said, and I'll take it round to the Telegraph office. 

The door of Ruttledge's office creaked again. Davy Stephens, minute in a large capecoat, a small 
felt hat crowning his ringlets, passed out with a roll of papers under his cape, a king's courier. 

Red Murray's long shears sliced out the advertisement from the newspaper in four clean strokes. 
Scissors and paste. 

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— I'll go through the printingworks, Mr Bloom said, taking the cut square. 

— Of course, if he wants a par, Red Murray said earnestly, a pen behind his ear, we can do him 
one. 

— Right, Mr Bloom said with a nod. I'll rub that in 

We. 

WILLIAM BRAYDEN, ESQUIRE, OF OAKLANDS, SANDYMOUNT 

Red Murray touched Mr Bloom's arm with the shears and whispered: 

— Brayden 

Mr Bloom turned and saw the liveried porter raise his lettered cap as a stately figure entered 
between the newsboards of the Weekly Freeman and National Press and the Freeman's Journal 
and National Press, Dullthudding Guinness's barrels. It passed stateliry up the staircase, steered by 
an umbrella, a solemn beardframed face. The broadcloth back ascended each step: back. All his 
brains are in the nape of his neck, Simon Dedahis says. Welts of flesh behind on him Fat folds of 
neck, fat, neck, fat, neck. 

— Don't you think his face is like Our Saviour? Red Murray whispered. 

The door of Ruttledge's office whispered: ee: cree. They always build one door opposite another 
for the wind to. Way in. Way out. 

Our Saviour: beardframed oval face: talking in the dusk. Mary, Martha. Steered by an umbrella 
sword to the footlights: Mario the tenor. 

— Or like Mario, Mr Bloom said. 

— Yes, Red Murray agreed. But Mario was said to be the picture of Our Saviour. 

Jesusmario with rougy cheeks, doublet and spindle legs. Hand on his heart. In Martha. 

Co-ome thou lost one, 
Co-ome thou dear one! 

THE CROZIER AND THE PEN 

— His grace phoned down twice this morning, Red Murray said gravely. 

They watched the knees, legs, boots vanish. Neck. 

A telegram boy stepped in nimbly, threw an envelope on the counter and stepped off posthaste with 
a word: 

— Freeman! 

Mr Bloom said slowly: 

— Well, he is one of our saviours also. 

A meek smile accompanied him as he lifted the counterflap, as he passed in through a sidedoor and 
along the warm dark stairs and passage, along the now reverberating boards. But will he save the 
circulation? Thumping. Thumping. 

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He pushed in the glass swingdoor and entered, stepping over strewn packing paper. Through a lane 
of clanking drums he made his way towards Nannetti's reading closet. 

WITH UNFEIGNED REGRET IT IS WE ANNOUNCE THE DISSOLUTION OF A MOST 
RESPECTED DUBLIN BURGESS 

Hynes here too: account of the funeral probably. Thumping. Thump. This morning the remains of the 
late Mr Patrick Dignam Machines. Smash a man to atoms if they got him caught. Rule the world 
today. His machineries are pegging away too. Like these, got out of hand: fermenting. Working away, 
tearing away. And that old grey rat tearing to get in. 

HOW A GREAT DAILY ORGAN IS TURNED OUT 

Mr Bloom halted behind the foreman's spare body, admiring a glossy crown 

Strange he never saw his real country. Ireland my country. Member for College green. He boomed 
that workaday worker tack for all it was worth. It's the ads and side features sell a weekly, not the 
stale news in the official gazette. Queen Anne is dead. Published by authority in the year one thousand 
and. Demesne situate in the townland of Rosenallis, barony of Tinnahinch To all whom it may concern 
schedule pursuant to statute showing return of number of mules and jennets exported from Ballina. 
Nature notes. Cartoons. Phil Blake's weekly Pat and Bull story. Uncle Toby's page for tiny tots. 
Country bumpkin's queries. Dear Mr Editor, what is a good cure for flatulence? I'd like that part. 
Learn a lot teaching others. The personal note. M. A. P. Mainly all pictures. Shapely bathers on 
golden strand. World's biggest balloon Double marriage of sisters celebrated. Two bridegrooms 
laughing heartily at each other. Cuprani too, printer. More Irish than the Irish. 

The machines clanked in threefour time. Thump, thump, thump. Now if he got paralysed there and 
no-one knew how to stop them they'd clank on and on the same, print it over and over and up and 
back. Monkeydoodle the whole thing. Want a cool head. 

— Well, get it into the evening edition, councillor, Hynes said. 

Soon be calling him my lord mayor. Long John is backing him, they say. 

The foreman, without answering, scribbled press on a corner of the sheet and made a sign to a 
typesetter. He handed the sheet silently over the dirty glass screen. 

— Right: thanks, Hynes said moving off 

Mr Bloom stood in his way. 

— If you want to draw the cashier is just going to lunch, he said, pointing backward with his thumb. 

— Did you? Hynes asked. 

— Mm, Mr Bbom said. Look sharp and you'll catch him 

— Thanks, old man, Hynes said. I'll tap him too. 

He hurried on eagerly towards the Freeman 's Journal. 

Three bob I lent him in Meagher's. Three weeks. Third hint. 

WE SEE THE CANVASSER AT WORK 

Mr Bloom laid his cutting on Mr Nannetti's desk. 

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— Excuse me, councillor, he said. This ad, you see. Keyes, you remember? 

Mr Nannetti considered the cutting awhile and nodded. 

— He wants it in for Jury, Mr Bloom said. 

The foreman moved his pencil towards it. 

— But wait, Mr Bloom said. He wants it changed. Keyes, you see. He wants two keys at the top. 

Hell of a racket they make. He doesn't hear it. Nannan Iron nerves. Maybe he understands what I. 

The foreman turned round to hear patiently and, lifting an elbow, began to scratch slowly in the 
armpit of his alpaca jacket. 

— Like that, Mr Bloom said, crossing his forefingers at the top. 

Let him take that in first. 

Mr Bloom, glancing sideways up from the cross he had made, saw the foreman's sallow face, think 
he has a touch of jaundice, and beyond the obedient reels feeding in huge webs of paper. Clank it. 
Clank it. Miles of it unreeled. What becomes of it after? O, wrap up meat, parcels: various uses, 
thousand and one things. 

Slipping his words deftly into the pauses of the clanking he drew swiftly on the scarred woodwork. 

HOUSE OF KEY(E)S 

— Like that, see. Two crossed keys here. A circle. Then here the name. Alexander Keyes, tea, 
wine and spirit merchant. So on. 

Better not teach him his own business. 

— You know yourself, councillor, just what he wants. Then round the top in leaded: the house of 
keys. You see? Do you think that's a good idea? 

The foreman moved his scratching hand to his lower ribs and scratched there quietly. 

— The idea, Mr Bloom said, is the house of keys. You know, councillor, the Manx parliament. 
Innuendo of home rule. Tourists, you know, from the isle of Man. Catches the eye, you see. Can you 
do that? 

I could ask him perhaps about how to pronounce that voglio. But then if he didn't know only make 
it awkward for him Better not. 

— We can do that, the foreman said. Have you the design? 

— I can get it, Mr Bloom said. It was in a Kilkenny paper. He has a house there too. I'll just run out 
and ask him Well, you can do that and just a little par calling attention. You know the usuaL Highclass 
licensed premises. Longfelt want. So on 

The foreman thought for an instant. 

— We can do that, he said. Let him give us a three months' renewaL 

A typesetter brought him a limp galleypage. He began to check it silently. Mr Bloom stood by, 
hearing the loud throbs of cranks, watching the silent typesetters at their cases. 

ORTHOGRAPHICAL 

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Want to be sure of his spelling. Proof fever. Martin Cunningham forgot to give us his spellingbee 
conundrum this morning. It is amusing to view the unpar one ar alleled embarra two ars is it? double 
ess ment of a harassed pedlar while gauging au the symmetry with a y of a peeled pear under a 
cemetery wall Silly, isn't it? Cemetery put in of course on account of the symmetry. 

I should have said when he clapped on his topper. Thank you. I ought to have said something about 
an old hat or something. No. I could have said. Looks as good as new now. See his phiz then. 

Silt. The nethermost deck of the first machine jogged forward its fiyboard with silt the first batch of 
quirefolded papers. Silt. Almost human the way it silt to call attention Doing its level best to speak. 
That door too si creaking, asking to be shut. Everything speaks in its own way. Silt. 

NOTED CHURCHMAN AN OCCASIONAL CONTRIBUTOR 

The foreman handed back the galleypage suddenly, saying: 

— Wait. Where's the archbishop's letter? It's to be repeated in the Telegraph. Where's what's his 
name? 

He looked about him round his loud unanswering machines. 

— Monks, sir? a voice asked from the castingbox. 

— Ay. Where's Monks? 

— Monks! 

Mr Bloom took up his cutting. Time to get out. 

— Then I'll get the design, Mr Nannetti, he said, and you'll give it a good place I know. 

— Monks! 

— Yes, sir. 

Three months' renewaL Want to get some wind off my chest first. Try it anyhow. Rub in August: 
good idea: horseshow month. Ballsbridge. Tourists over for the show. 

A DAYFATHER 

He walked on through the caseroom passing an old man, bowed, spectacled, aproned. Old 
Monks, the dayfather. Queer lot of stuff he must have put through his hands in his time: obituary 
notices, pubs' ads, speeches, divorce suits, found drowned. Nearing the end of his tether now. Sober 
serious man with a bit in the savingsbank I'd say. Wife a good cook and washer. Daughter working 
the machine in the parlour. Plain Jane, no damn nonsense. AND IT WAS THE FEAST OF THE 
PASSOVER 

He stayed in his walk to watch a typesetter neatly distributing type. Reads it backwards first. 
Quickly he does it. Must require some practice that. mangiD kcirtaP. Poor papa with his hagadah 
book, reading backwards with his finger to me. Pessach. Next year in Jerusalem Dear, O dear! All 
that long business about that brought us out of the land of Egypt and into the house of bondage 
Alleluia. Shema Israel Adonai Elohenu. No, that's the other. Then the twelve brothers, Jacob's 
sons. And then the lamb and the cat and the dog and the stick and the water and the butcher. And 
then the angel of death kills the butcher and he kills the ox and the dog kills the cat. Sounds a bit silly 
till you come to look into it well Justice it means but it's everybody eating everyone else. That's what 

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life is after all How quickly he does that job. Practice makes perfect. Seems to see with his fingers. 

Mr Bloom passed on out of the clanking noises through the gallery on to the landing. Now am I 
going to tram it out all the way and then catch him out perhaps. Better phone him up first. Number? 
Yes. Same as Citron's house. Twentyeight. Twentyeight double four. 

ONLY ONCE MORE THAT SOAP 

He went down the house staircase. Who the deuce scrawled all over those walls with matches? 
Looks as if they did it for a bet. Heavy greasy smell there always is in those works. Lukewarm glue in 
Thorn's next door when I was there. 

He took out his handkerchief to dab his nose. Citronlemon? Ah, the soap I put there. Lose it out of 
that pocket. Putting back his handkerchief he took out the soap and stowed it away, buttoned, into the 
hip pocket of his trousers. 

What perfume does your wife use? I could go home still: tram something I forgot. Just to see: 
before: dressing. No. Here. No. 

A sudden screech of laughter came from the Evening Telegraph office. Know who that is. What's 
up? Pop in a minute to phone. Ned Lambert it is. 

He entered softly. 

ERIN, GREEN GEM OF THE SILVER SEA 

— The ghost walks, professor MacHugh murmured softly, biscuitftilry to the dusty windowpane. 

Mr Dedalus, staring from the empty fireplace at Ned Lambert's quizzing face, asked of it sourly: 

— Agonising Christ, wouldn't it give you a heartburn on your arse? 

Ned Lambert, seated on the table, read on: 

— Or again, note the meanderings of some purling rill as it babbles on its way, tho' 
quarrelling with the stony obstacles, to the tumbling waters of Neptune's blue domain, 'mid 
mossy banks, fanned by gentlest zephyrs, played on by the glorious sunlight or 'neath the 
shadows cast o'er its pensive bosom by the overarching leafage of the giants of the forest. What 
about that, Simon? he asked over the fringe of his newspaper. How's that for high? 

— Changing his drink, Mr Dedalus said. 

Ned Lambert, laughing, struck the newspaper on his knees, repeating: 

— The pensive bosom and the overarsing leafage. O boys! O boys! 

— And Xenophon looked upon Marathon, Mr Dedalus said, looking again on the fireplace and to 
the window, and Marathon looked on the sea. 

— That will do, professor MacHugh cried from the window. I don't want to hear any more of the 
stuff 

He ate off the crescent of water biscuit he had been nibbling and, hungered, made ready to nibble 
the biscuit in his other hand. 

High fahitin stuff Bladderbags. Ned Lambert is taking a day off I see. Rather upsets a man's day, a 
funeral does. He has influence they say. Old Chatterton, the vicechancellor, is his granduncle or his 

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greatgranduncle. Close on ninety they say Subleader for his death written this long time perhaps. 
Living to spite them. Might go first himself Johnny, make room for your uncle. The right honourable 
Hedges Eyre Chatterton Daresay he writes him an odd shaky cheque or two on gale days. Windfall 
when he kicks out. Alleluia. 

— Just another spasm, Ned Lambert said. 

— What is it? Mr Bloom asked. 

— A recently discovered fragment of Cicero, professor MacHugh answered with pomp of tone. 
Our lovely land, SHORT BUT TO THE POINT 

— Whose land? Mr Bloom said simply. 

— Most pertinent question, the professor said between his chews. With an accent on the whose. 

— Dan Dawson's land Mr Dedalus said. 

— Is it his speech last night? Mr Bloom asked. 

Ned Lambert nodded. 

— But listen to this, he said. 

The doorknob hit Mr Bloom in the small of the back as the door was pushed in. 

— Excuse me, J. J. O'Molloy said, entering. 

Mr Bloom moved nimbly aside. 

— I beg yours, he said. 

— Good day, Jack. 

— Come in. Come in. 

— Good day. 

— How are you, Dedalus? 

— Wei And yourself? 

J. J. O'Molloy shook his head. 

SAD 

Cleverest fellow at the junior bar he used to be. Decline, poor chap. That hectic flush spells finis for 
a man. Touch and go with him What's in the wind, I wonder. Money worry. 

— Or again if we but climb the serried mountain peaks. 

— You're looking extra. 

— Is the editor to be seen? J. J. O'Molloy asked, looking towards the inner door. 

— Very much so, professor MacHugh said. To be seen and heard. He's in his sanctum with 
Lenehan 

J. J. O'Molloy strolled to the sloping desk and began to turn back the pink pages of the file. 

Practice dwindling. A mighthavebeen Losing heart. Gambling. Debts of honour. Reaping the 

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whirlwind. Used to get good retainers from D. and T. Fitzgerald. Their wigs to show the grey matter. 
Brains on their sleeve like the statue in Glasnevin. Believe he does some literary work for the Express 
with Gabriel Conroy. Wellread fellow. Myles Crawford began on the Independent. Funny the way 
those newspaper men veer about when they get wind of a new opening. Weathercocks. Hot and cold 
in the same breath. Wouldn't know which to believe. One story good till you hear the next. Go for one 
another baldheaded in the papers and then all blows over. Hail fellow well met the next moment. 

— Ah, listen to this for God' sake, Ned Lambert pleaded. Or again if we but climb the serried 
mountain peaks. . . 

— Bombast! the professor broke in testify. Enough of the inflated windbag! 

— Peaks, Ned Lambert went on, towering high on high, to bathe our souls, as it were... 

— Bathe his lips, Mr DedaLis said. Blessed and eternal God! Yes? Is he taking anything for it? 

— As 'twere, in the peerless panorama of Ireland's portfolio, unmatched, despite their 
wellpraised prototypes in other vaunted prize regions, for very beauty, of bosky grove and 
undulating plain and luscious pastureland of vernal green, steeped in the transcendent 
translucent glow of our mild mysterious Irish twilight... 

HIS NATIVE DORIC 

— The moon, professor MacHugh said. He forgot Hamlet. 

— That mantles the vista far and wide and wait till the glowing orb of the moon shine forth 
to irradiate her silver effulgence... 

— O! Mr DedaLis cried, giving vent to a hopeless groan Shite and onions! That'll do, Ned. Life is 
too short. 

He took off his silk hat and, blowing out impatiently his bushy moustache, welshcombed his hair 
with raking fingers. 

Ned Lambert tossed the newspaper aside, chuckling with delight. An instant after a hoarse bark of 
laughter burst over professor MacHugh's unshaven blackspectac led face. 

— Doughy Daw! he cried. 

WHAT WETHERUP SAID 

All very fine to jeer at it now in cold print but it goes down like hot cake that stuff He was in the 
bakery line too, wasn't he? Why they call him Doughy Daw. Feathered his nest well anyhow. 
Daughter engaged to that chap in the inland revenue office with the motor. Hooked that nicely. 
Entertainments. Open house. Big blowout. Wetherup always said that. Get a grip of them by the 
stomach. 

The inner door was opened violently and a scarlet beaked face, crested by a comb of feathery hair, 
thrust itself in The bold blue eyes stared about them and the harsh voice asked: 

—What is it? 

— And here comes the sham squire himself! professor MacHugh said grandly. 

— Getonouthat, you bloody old pedagogue! the editor said in recognition 

— Come, Ned, Mr DedaLis said, putting on his hat. I must get a drink after that. 

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— Drink! the editor cried. No drinks served before mass. 

— Quite right too, Mr Dedatus said, going out. Come on, Ned. 

Ned Lambert sidled down from the table. The editor's blue eyes roved towards Mr Bloom's face, 
shadowed by a smile. 

— Will you join us, Myles? Ned Lambert asked. 

MEMORABLE BATTLES RECALLED 

— North Cork militia! the editor cried, striding to the mantelpiece. We won every time! North Cork 
and Spanish officers! 

— Where was that, Myles? Ned Lambert asked with a reflective glance at his toecaps. 

— In Ohio! the editor shouted. 

— So it was, begad, Ned Lambert agreed. 

Passing out he whispered to J. J. O'Molloy: 

— Incipient jigs. Sad case. 

— Ohio! the editor crowed in high treble from his uplifted scarlet face. My Ohio! 

— A perfect cretic! the professor said. Long, short and long. 

O, HARP EOLIAN! 

He took a reel of dental floss from his waistcoat pocket and, breaking off a piece, twanged it 
smartly between two and two of his resonant unwashed teeth. 

— Bingbang, bangbang. 

Mr Bloom, seeing the coast clear, made for the inner door. 

— Just a moment, Mr Crawford, he said. I just want to phone about an ad. 

He went in. 

— What about that leader this evening? professor MacHugh asked, coming to the editor and laying 
a firm hand on his shoulder. 

— That'll be all right, Myles Crawford said more calmly. Never you fret. Hello, Jack. That's all right. 

— Good day, Myles, J. J. O'Molloy said, letting the pages he held slip limply back on the file. Is 
that Canada swindle case on today? 

The telephone whirred inside. 

— Twentyeight... No, twenty... Double four... Yes. 

SPOT THE WINNER 

Lenehan came out of the inner office with SPORTS tissues. 

— Who wants a dead cert for the Gold cup? he asked. Sceptre with O. Madden up. 

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He tossed the tissues on to the table. 

Screams of newsboys barefoot in the hall rushed near and the door was flung open. 

— Hush, Lenehan said. I hear feetstoops. 

Professor MacHugh strode across the room and seized the cringing urchin by the collar as the 
others scampered out of the hall and down the steps. The tissues rustled up in the draught, floated 
softly in the air blue scrawls and under the table came to earth. 

— It wasn't me, sir. It was the big fellow shoved me, sir. 

— Throw him out and shut the door, the editor said. There's a hurricane blowing. 

Lenehan began to paw the tissues up from the floor, grunting as he stooped twice. 

— Waiting for the racing special, sir, the newsboy said. It was Pat Farrell shoved me, sir. 

He pointed to two faces peering in round the doorframe. 

— Him, sir. 

— Out of this with you, professor MacHugh said gruffly. 

He hustled the boy out and banged the door to. 

J. J. O'Molloy turned the files crackingfy over, murmuring, seeking: 

— Continued on page six, column four. 

— Yes, Evening Telegraph here, Mr Bloom phoned from the inner office. Is the boss...? Yes, 
Telegraph... To where? Aha! Which auction rooms ?... Aha! I see... Right. I'll catch him 

A COLLISION ENSUES 

The bell whirred again as he rang off He came in quickly and bumped against Lenehan who was 
struggling up with the second tissue. 

— Pardon, monsieur, Lenehan said, clutching him for an instant and making a grimace. 

— My fault, Mr Bloom said, suffering his grip. Are you hurt? I'm in a hurry. 

— Knee, Lenehan said. 

He made a comic face and whined, rubbing his knee: 

— The accumulation of the anno Domini. 

— Sorry, Mr Bloom said. 

He went to the door and, holding it ajar, paused. J. J. O'Molloy slapped the heavy pages over. The 
noise of two shrill voices, a mouthorgan, echoed in the bare hallway from the newsboys squatted on 
the doorsteps: 

— We are the boys of Wexford 
Who fought with heart and hand. 

EXIT BLOOM 

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— I'm just miming round to Bachelor's walk, Mr Bloom said, about this ad of Keyes's. Want to fix 
it up. They tell me he's round there in Dillon's. 

He looked indecisively for a moment at their faces. The editor who, leaning against the mantelshelf, 
had propped his head on his hand, suddenly stretched forth an arm amply. 

— Begone! he said. The world is before you. 

— Back in no time, Mr Bloom said, hurrying out. 

J. J. O'Molloy took the tissues from Lenehan's hand and read them, blowing them apart gentry, 
without comment. 

— He'll get that advertisement, the professor said, staring through his blackrimmed spectacles over 
the crossblind. Look at the young scamps after him 

— Show. Where? Lenehan cried, running to the window. 

A STREET CORTEGE 

Both smiled over the crossblind at the file of capering newsboys in Mr Bloom's wake, the last 
zigzagging white on the breeze a mocking kite, a tail of white bowknots. 

— Look at the young guttersnipe behind him hue and cry, Lenehan said, and you'll kick. O, my rib 
risible! Taking off his flat spaugs and the walk. Small nines. Steal upon larks. 

He began to mazurka in swift caricature across the floor on sliding feet past the fireplace to J. J. 
O'Molloy who placed the tissues in his receiving hands. 

— What's that? Myles Crawford said with a start. Where are the other two gone? 

— Who? the professor said, turning. They're gone round to the Oval for a drink. Paddy Hooper is 
there with Jack Hall. Came over last night. 

— Come on then, Myles Crawford said. Where's my hat? 

He walked jerkily into the office behind, parting the vent of his jacket, jingling his keys in his back 
pocket. They jingled then in the air and against the wood as he bcked his desk drawer. 

— He's pretty well on, professor MacHugh said in a low voice. 

— Seems to be, J. J. O'Molloy said, taking out a cigarettecase in murmuring meditation, but it is not 
always as it seems. Who has the most matches? 

THE CALUMET OF PEACE 

He offered a cigarette to the professor and took one himself Lenehan promptly struck a match for 
them and lit their cigarettes in turn. J. J. O'Molloy opened his case again and offered it. 

— Thanky vous, Lenehan said, helping himself 

The editor came from the inner office, a straw hat awry on his brow. He declaimed in song, pointing 
sternly at professor MacHugh: 

— 'Twas rank and fame that tempted thee, 'Twas empire charmed thy heart. 

The professor grinned, locking his long lips. 

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— Eh? You bloody old Roman empire? Myles Crawford said. 

He took a cigarette from the open case. Lenehan, lighting it for him with quick grace, said: 

— Silence for my brandnew riddle! 

— Imperium romanum, J. J. O'Molloy said gentry. It sounds nobler than British or Brixton. The 
word reminds one somehow of fat in the fire. 

Myles Crawford blew his first puff violently towards the ceiling. 

— That's it, he said. We are the fat. You and I are the fat in the fire. We haven't got the chance of a 
snowball in hell. 

THE GRANDEUR THAT WAS ROME 

— Wait a moment, professor MacHugh said, raising two quiet claws. We mustn't be led away by 
words, by sounds of words. We think of Rome, imperial, imperious, imperative. 

He extended elocutionary arms from frayed stained shirtcuffs, pausing: 

— What was their civilisation? Vast, I allow: but vile. Cloacae: sewers. The Jews in the wilderness 
and on the mountaintop said: It is meet to be here. Let us build an altar to Jehovah. The Roman, 
like the Englishman who follows in his footsteps, brought to every new shore on which he set his foot 
(on our shore he never set it) only his cloacal obsession He gazed about him in his toga and he said: It 
is meet to be here. Let us construct a watercloset. 

— Which they accordingly did do, Lenehan said. Our old ancient ancestors, as we read in the first 
chapter of Guinness's, were partial to the running stream 

— They were nature's gentlemen, J. J. O'Molloy murmured. But we have also Roman law. 

— And Pontius Pilate is its prophet, professor MacHugh responded. 

— Do you know that story about chief baron Palles? J. J. O'Molloy asked. It was at the royal 
university dinner. Everything was going swimmingly ... 

— First my riddle, Lenehan said. Are you ready? 

Mr O'Madden Burke, tall in copious grey of Donegal tweed, came in from the hallway. Stephen 
Dedahis, behind him, uncovered as he entered. 

— Entrez, mes enfants! Lenehan cried. 

— I escort a suppliant, Mr O'Madden Burke said melodiously. Youth led by Experience visits 
Notoriety. 

— How do you do? the editor said, holding out a hand. Come in. Your governor is just gone.??? 

Lenehan said to all: 

— Silence! What opera resembles a raihvayline? Reflect, ponder, excogitate, reply. 

Stephen handed over the typed sheets, pointing to the title and signature. 

— Who? the editor asked. 

Bit torn off 

— Mr Garrett Deasy, Stephen said. 

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— That old pelters, the editor said. Who tore it? Was he short taken? 

On swift sail flaming 
From storm and south 
He comes, pale vampire, 
Mouth to my mouth. 

— Good day, Stephen, the professor said, coming to peer over their shoulders. Foot and mouth? 
Are you turned...? 

Bullockbefriending bard. 

SHINDY IN WELLKNOWN RESTAURANT 

— Good day, sir, Stephen answered blushing. The letter is not mine. Mr Garrett Deasy asked me 
to... 

— O, I know him, Myles Crawford said, and I knew his wife too. The bloodiest old tartar God 
ever made. By Jesus, she had the foot and mouth disease and no mistake! The night she threw the 
soup in the waiter's face in the Star and Garter. Oho! 

A woman brought sin into the world. For Helen, the runaway wife of Menelaus, ten years the 
Greeks. O'Rourke, prince of Breflhi 

— Is he a widower? Stephen asked. 

— Ay, a grass one, Myles Crawford said, his eye running down the typescript. Emperor's horses. 
Habsburg An Irishman saved his life on the ramparts of Vienna. Don't you forget! Maximilian Karl 
O'Donnell, graf von Tirconnell in Ireland. Sent his heir over to make the king an Austrian fieldmarshal 
now. Going to be trouble there one day. Wild geese. O yes, every time. Don't you forget that! 

— The moot point is did he forget it, J. J. O'Molloy said quietly, turning a horseshoe paperweight. 
Saving princes is a thank you job. 

Professor MacHugh turned on him 

— And if not? he said. 

— I'll tell you how it was, Myles Crawford began A Hungarian it was one day... LOST CAUSES 

NOBLE MARQUESS MENTIONED 

— We were always loyal to lost causes, the professor said. Success for us is the death of the 
intellect and of the imagination. We were never loyal to the successful We serve them I teach the 
blatant Latin language. I speak the tongue of a race the acme of whose mentality is the maxim time is 
money. Material domination Dominus ! Lord! Where is the spirituality? Lord Jesus? Lord Salisbury? 
A sofa in a westend club. But the Greek! 

KYRIEELEISON! 

A smile of light brightened his darkrimmed eyes, lengthened his long lips. 

— The Greek! he said again. Kyrios! Shining word! The vowels the Semite and the Saxon know 
not. Kyrie! The radiance of the intellect. I ought to profess Greek, the language of the mind. Kyrie 
eleison! The closetmaker and the cloacamaker will never be lords of our spirit. We are liege subjects 

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of the catholic chivalry of Europe that foundered at Trafalgar and of the empire of the spirit, not an 
imperium, that went under with the Athenian fleets at Aegospotami Yes, yes. They went under. 
Pyrrhus, misled by an oracle, made a last attempt to retrieve the fortunes of Greece. Loyal to a lost 
cause. 

He strode away from them towards the window. 

— They went forth to battle, Mr O'Madden Burke said greyly, but they always fell 

— Boohoo! Lenehan wept with a little noise. Owing to a brick received in the latter half of the 
matinee. Poor, poor, poor Pyrrhus! 

He whispered then near Stephen's ear: 

LENEHAN'S LIMERICK 

There's a ponderous pundit MacHugh 

Who wears goggles of ebony hue. 

As he mostly sees double 

To wear them why trouble? 

I can 't see the Joe Miller. Can you? 

In mourning for Sallust, Mulgan says. Whose mother is beastly dead. 

Myles Crawford crammed the sheets into a sidepocket. 

— That'll be all right, he said. I'll read the rest after. That'll be all right. 

Lenehan extended his hands in protest. 

— But my riddle! he said. What opera is like a raihvayline? 

— Opera? Mr O'Madden Burke's sphinx face reriddled. 

Lenehan announced gladly: 

— The Rose of Castile. See the wheeze? Rows of cast steel Gee! 

He poked Mr O'Madden Burke mildly in the spleen. Mr O'Madden Burke fell back with grace on 
his umbrella, feigning a gasp. 

— Help! he sighed. I feel a strong weakness. 

Lenehan, rising to tiptoe, fanned his face rapidly with the rustling tissues. 

The professor, returning by way of the files, swept his hand across Stephen's and Mr O'Madden 
Burke's loose ties. 

— Paris, past and present, he said. You look like communards. 

— Like fellows who had blown up the Bastile, J. J. O'Molloy said in quiet mockery. Or was it you 
shot the lord lieutenant of Finland between you? You look as though you had done the deed. General 
Bobrikoff. 

OMNIUM GATHERUM 

— We were only thinking about it, Stephen said. 

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— All the talents, Myles Crawford said. Law, the classics... 

— The turf, Lenehan put in. 

— Literature, the press. 

— If Bloom were here, the professor said. The gentle art of advertisement. 

— And Madam Bloom, Mr O'Madden Burke added. The vocal muse. Dublin's prime favourite. 

Lenehan gave a loud cough. 

— Ahem! he said very softly. O, for a fresh of breath air! I caught a cold in the park. The gate was 
open 

YOU CAN DO IT! 

The editor laid a nervous hand on Stephen's shoulder. 

— I want you to write something for me, he said. Something with a bite in it. You can do it. I see it 
in your face. In the lexicon of youth ... 

See it in your face. See it in your eye. Lazy idle little schemer. 

— Foot and mouth disease! the editor cried in scornful invective. Great nationalist meeting in Borris- 
in-Ossory. All balls! Bulldosing the public! Give them something with a bite in it. Put us all into it, damn 
its soul Father, Son and Holy Ghost and Jakes M'Carthy. 

— We can all supply mental pabulum, Mr O'Madden Burke said. 

Stephen raised his eyes to the bold unheeding stare. 

— He wants you for the pressgang, J. J. O'Molloy said. 

THE GREAT GALLAHER 

— You can do it, Myles Crawford repeated, clenching his hand in emphasis. Wait a minute. We'll 
paralyse Europe as Ignatius Galkher used to say when he was on the shaughraun, doing 
billiardmarking in the Clarence. Gallaher, that was a pressman for you. That was a pen. You know 
how he made his mark? I'll tell you. That was the smartest piece of journalism ever known. That was 
in eightyone, sixth of May, time of the invincibles, murder in the Phoenix park, before you were born, I 
suppose. I'll show you. 

He pushed past them to the files. 

— Look at here, he said turning. The New York World cabled for a speciaL Remember that time? 

Professor MacHugh nodded. 

— New York World, the editor said, excitedly pushing back his straw hat. Where it took place. Tim 
Kelly, or Kavanagh I mean Joe Brady and the rest of them Where Skin-the-Goat drove the car. 
Whole route, see? 

— Skin-the-Goat, Mr O'Madden Burke said. Fitzharris. He has that cabman's shelter, they say, 
down there at Butt bridge. Holohan told me. You know Holohan? 

— Hop and carry one, is it? Myles Crawford said. 

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— And poor Gumley is down there too, so he told me, minding stones for the corporation. A night 
watchman. 

Stephen turned in surprise. 

— Gumley? he said. You don't say so? A friend of my father's, is it? 

— Never mind Gumley, Myles Crawford cried angrily. Let Gumley mind the stones, see they don't 
run away. Look at here. What did Ignatius Gallaher do? I'll tell you. Inspiration of genius. Cabled right 
away. Have you Weekly Freeman of 1 7 March? Right. Have you got that? 

He flung back pages of the files and stuck his finger on a point. 

— Take page four, advertisement for Bransome's coffee, let us say. Have you got that? Right. 

The telephone whirred. 

A DISTANT VOICE 

— I'll answer it, the professor said, going. 

— B is parkgate. Good. 

His finger leaped and struck point after point, vibrating. 

— T is viceregal lodge. C is where murder took place. K is Knockmaroon gate. 

The loose flesh of his neck shook like a cock's wattles. An illstarched dicky jutted up and with a 
rude gesture he thrust it back into his waistcoat. 

— Hello? Evening Telegraph here... Hello?... Who's there?... Yes... Yes... Yes. 

— F to P is the route Skin-the-Goat drove the car for an alibi Inchicore, Roundtown, Windy 
Arbour, Palmerston Park, Ranelagh. F.A.B.P. Got that? X is Davy's publichouse in upper Leeson 
street. 

The professor came to the inner door. 

— Bloom is at the telephone, he said. 

— Tell him go to hell, the editor said promptly. X is Davy's publichouse, see? CLEVER, VERY 

— Clever, Lenehan said. Very. 

— Gave it to them on a hot plate, Myles Crawford said, the whole bloody history. 

Nightmare from which you will never awake. 

— I saw it, the editor said proudly. I was present. Dick Adams, the besthearted bloody Corkman 
the Lord ever put the breath of life in, and myself 

Lenehan bowed to a shape of air, announcing: 

— Madam, I'm Adam And Able was I ere I saw Elba. 

— History! Myles Crawford cried. The Old Woman of Prince's street was there first. There was 
weeping and gnashing of teeth over that. Out of an advertisement. Gregor Grey made the design for it. 
That gave him the leg up. Then Paddy Hooper worked Tay Pay who took him on to the Star. Now 
he's got in with BLimenfeld. That's press. That's talent. Pyatt! He was all their daddies! 

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— The father of scare journalism, Lenehan confirmed, and the brother-in-law of Chris Callinan 

— Hello?... Are you there?... Yes, he's here still. Come across yourself 

— Where do you find a pressman like that now, eh? the editor cried. He flung the pages down. 

— Clamn dever, Lenehan said to Mr O'Madden Burke. 

— Very smart, Mr O'Madden Burke said. 

Professor MacHugh came from the inner office. 

— Talking about the invincibles, he said, did you see that some hawkers were up before the 
recorder? 

— O yes, J. J. O'Molloy said eagerly. Lady Dudley was walking home through the park to see all 
the trees that were blown down by that cyclone last year and thought she'd buy a view of Dublin. And 
it turned out to be a commemoration postcard of Joe Brady or Number One or Skin-the-Goat. Right 
outside the viceregal lodge, imagine! 

— They're only in the hook and eye department, Myles Crawford said. Psha! Press and the bar! 
Where have you a man now at the bar like those fellows, like Whiteside, like Isaac Butt, like 
silvertongued O'Hagan Eh? Ah, bloody nonsense. Psha! Only in the halfpenny place. 

His mouth continued to twitch unspeaking in nervous curls of disdain. 

Would anyone wish that mouth for her kiss? How do you know? Why did you write it then? 

RHYMES AND REASONS 

Mouth south. Is the mouth south someway? Or the south a mouth? Must be some. South, pout, 
out, shout, drouth. Rhymes: two men dressed the same, looking the same, two by two. 

la tuapace 

che parlar tipiace 

.... mentreche ilvento, come fa, si face. 

He saw them three by three, approaching girls, in green, in rose, in russet, entwining, per I'aer 
perso, in mauve, in purple, quella pacifica oriafiamma, gold oforiflamme, di rimirar fe piu ardenti. 
But I old men, penitent, leadenfooted, underdarkneath the night: mouth south: tomb womb. 

— Speak up for yourself, Mr O'Madden Burke said. 

SUFFICIENT FOR THE DAY... 

J. J. O'Molloy, smiling pale fy, took up the gage. 

— My dear Myles, he said, flinging his cigarette aside, you put a false construction on my words. I 
hold no brief; as at present advised, for the third profession qua profession but your Cork legs are 
running away with you. Why not bring in Henry Grattan and Flood and Demosthenes and Edmund 
Burke? Ignatius Galkher we all know and his Chapelizod boss, Harmsworth of the farthing press, and 
his American cousin of the Bowery guttersheet not to mention Paddy Kelly's Budget, Pue's 
Occurrences and our watchful friend The Skibbereen Eagle. Why bring in a master of forensic 
eloquence like Whiteside? Sufficient for the day is the newspaper thereof LINKS WITH BYGONE 
DAYS OF YORE 

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— Grattan and Flood wrote for this very paper, the editor cried in his face. Irish volunteers. Where 
are you now? Established 1763. Dr Lucas. Who have you now like John Philpot Curran? Psha! 

— Well, J. J. O'Molloy said, Bushe K.C., for example. 

— Bushe? the editor said. Well, yes: Bushe, yes. He has a strain of it in his blood. Kendal Bushe or 
I mean Seymour Bushe. 

— He would have been on the bench long ago, the professor said, only for ... But no matter. 

J. J. O'Molloy turned to Stephen and said quietly and slowly: 

— One of the most polished periods I think I ever listened to in my life fell from the lips of Seymour 
Bushe. It was in that case of fratricide, the Childs murder case. Bushe defended him And in the 
porches of mine ear did pour. 

By the way how did he find that out? He died in his sleep. Or the other story, beast with two 
backs? 

— What was that? the professor asked. 

ITALIA, MAGISTRA ARTIUM 

— He spoke on the law of evidence, J. J. O'Molloy said, of Roman justice as contrasted with the 
earlier Mosaic code, the lex talionis. And he cited the Moses of Michelangelo in the Vatican 

—Ha. 

— A few we llchosen words, Lenehan prefaced. Silence! 

Pause. J. J. O'Molloy took out his cigarettecase. 

False lull Something quite ordinary. 

Messenger took out his matchbox thoughtfully and lit his cigar. 

I have often thought since on looking back over that strange time that it was that small act, trivial in 
itself, that striking of that match, that determined the whole aftercourse of both our lives. A 
POLISHED PERIOD 

J. J. O'Molloy resumed, moulding his words: 

— He said of it: that stony effigy in frozen music, horned and terrible, of the human form 
divine, that eternal symbol of wisdom and of prophecy which, if aught that the imagination or 
the hand of sculptor has wrought in marble of soultransfigured and of soultransfiguring 
deserves to live, deserves to live. 

His slim hand with a wave graced echo and fall 

— Fine! Myles Crawford said at once. 

— The divine afflatus, Mr O 'Madden Burke said. 

—You like it? J. J. O'Molloy asked Stephen. 

Stephen, his blood wooed by grace of language and gesture, blushed. He took a cigarette from the 
case. J. J. O'Molloy offered his case to Myles Crawford. Lenehan lit their cigarettes as before and 
took his trophy, saying: 

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— Muchibus thankibus. 

A MAN OF HIGH MORALE 

— Professor Magennis was speaking to me about you, J. J. O'Molloy said to Stephen. What do 
you think really of that hermetic crowd, the opal hush poets: A. E. the mastermystic? That Blavatsky 
woman started it. She was a nice old bag of tricks. A. E. has been telling some yankee interviewer that 
you came to him in the small hours of the morning to ask him about planes of consciousness. Magennis 
thinks you must have been pulling A. E.'s leg. He is a man of the very highest morale, Magennis. 

Speaking about me. What did he say? What did he say? What did he say about me? Don't ask. 

— No, thanks, professor MacHugh said, waving the cigarettecase aside. Wait a moment. Let me 
say one thing. The finest display of oratory I ever heard was a speech made by John F Taylor at the 
college historical society. Mr Justice Fitzgihbon, the present lord justice of appeal, had spoken and the 
paper under debate was an essay (new for those days), advocating the revival of the Irish tongue. 

He turned towards Myles Crawford and said: 

— You know Gerald Fitzgihbon Then you can imagine the style of his discourse. 

— He is sitting with Tim Heary, J. J. O'Molloy said, rumour has it, on the Trinity college estates 
commission. 

— He is sitting with a sweet thing, Myles Crawford said, in a child's frock. Go on Well? 

— It was the speech, mark you, the professor said, of a finished orator, full of courteous haughtiness 
and pouring in chastened diction I will not say the vials of his wrath but pouring the proud man's 
contumely upon the new movement. It was then a new movement. We were weak, therefore 
worthless. 

He closed his long thin lips an instant but, eager to be on, raised an outspanned hand to his 
spectacles and, with trembling thumb and ringfinger touching lightly the black rims, steadied them to a 
new focus. 

IMPROMPTU 

In ferial tone he addressed J. J. O'Molloy: 

— Taylor had come there, you must know, from a sickbed. That he had prepared his speech I do 
not believe for there was not even one shorthandwriter in the hall His dark lean face had a growth of 
shaggy beard round it. He wore a loose white silk neckcloth and altogether he looked (though he was 
not) a dying man. 

His gaze turned at once but slowly from J. J. O'Molloy's towards Stephen's face and then bent at 
once to the ground, seeking. His unglazed linen collar appeared behind his bent head, soiled by his 
withering hair. Still seeking, he said: 

— When Fitzgihbon's speech had ended John F Taylor rose to reply. Briefly, as well as I can bring 
them to mind, his words were these. 

He raised his head firmly. His eyes bethought themselves once more. Witless shellfish swam in the 
gross lenses to and fro, seeking outlet. 

He began: 

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— Mr Chairman, ladies and gentlemen: Great was my admiration in listening to the remarks 
addressed to the youth of Ireland a moment since by my learned friend. It seemed to me that I 
had been transported into a country far away from this country, into an age remote from this 
age, that I stood in ancient Egypt and that I was listening to the speech of some highpriest of 
that land addressed to the youthful Moses. 

His listeners held their cigarettes poised to hear, their smokes ascending in frail stalks that flowered 
with his speech. And let our crooked smokes. Noble words coming. Look out. Could you try your 
hand at it yourself? 

— And it seemed to me that I heard the voice of that Egyptian highpriest raised in a tone of 
like haughtiness and like pride. I heard his words and their meaning was revealed to me. 

FROM THE FATHERS 

It was revealed to me that those things are good which yet are corrupted which neither if they were 
supremely good nor unless they were good could be corrupted. Ah, curse you! That's saint Augustine. 

— Why will you jews not accept our culture, our religion and our language? You are a tribe 
of nomad herdsmen: we are a mighty people. You have no cities nor no wealth: our cities are 
hives of humanity and our galleys, trireme and quadrireme, laden with all manner merchandise 
furrow the waters of the known globe. You have but emerged from primitive conditions: we 
have a literature, a priesthood, an agelong history and a polity. 

Nile. 

Child, man, effigy. 

By the Nilebank the babemaries kneel, cradle of bulrushes: a man supple in combat: stonehomed, 
stonebearded, heart of stone. 

— You pray to a local and obscure idol: our temples, majestic and mysterious, are the abodes 
of Isis and Osiris, of Horus and Ammon Ra. Yours serfdom, awe and humbleness: ours thunder 
and the seas. Israel is weak and few are her children: Egypt is an host and terrible are her 
arms. Vagrants and daylabourers are you called: the world trembles at our name. 

A dumb belch of hunger cleft his speech. He lifted his voice above it boldly: 

— But, ladies and gentlemen, had the youthful Moses listened to and accepted that view of 
life, had he bowed his head and bowed his will and bowed his spirit before that arrogant 
admonition he would never have brought the chosen people out of their house of bondage, nor 
followed the pillar of the cloud by day. He would never have spoken with the Eternal amid 
lightnings on Sinai's mountaintop nor ever have come down with the light of inspiration shining 
in his countenance and bearing in his arms the tables of the law, graven in the language of the 
outlaw. 

He ceased and looked at them, enjoying a silence. 

OMINOUS— FOR HIM! 

J. J. O'Molloy said not without regret: 

— And yet he died without having entered the land of promise. 

— A sudden — at — the — moment — thought — from — lingering — illness — often — previously — 
expectorated — demise, Lenehan added. And with a great future behind him 

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The troop of bare feet was heard rushing along the hallway and pattering up the staircase. 

— That is oratory, the professor said uncontradicted. Gone with the wind. Hosts at Mulkghmast 
and Tara of the kings. Miles of ears of porches. The tribune's words, howled and scattered to the four 
winds. A people sheltered within his voice. Dead noise. Akasic records of all that ever anywhere 
wherever was. Love and laud him: me no more. 

I have money. 

— Gentlemen, Stephen said. As the next motion on the agenda paper may I suggest that the house 
do now adjourn? 

— You take my breath away. It is not perchance a French compliment? Mr O 'Madden Burke 
asked. 'Tis the hour, methinks, when the winejug, metaphorically speaking, is most grateful in Ye 
ancient hostelry. 

— That it be and hereby is resolutely resolved. All that are in favour say ay, Lenehan announced. 
The contrary no. I declare it carried. To which particular boosing shed?... My casting vote is: 
Mooney's! 

He led the way, admonishing: 

— We will sternly refuse to partake of strong waters, will we not? Yes, we will not. By no manner 
of means. 

Mr O'Madden Burke, following close, said with an ally's hinge of his umbrella: 

— Lay on, Macduff! 

— Chip of the old block! the editor cried, clapping Stephen on the shoulder. Let us go. Where are 
those blasted keys? 

He fumbled in his pocket pulling out the crushed typesheets. 

— Foot and mouth. I know. That'll be alright. That'll go in. Where are they? That's all right. 

He thrust the sheets back and went into the inner office. LET US HOPE 

J. J. O'Molloy, about to follow him in, said quietly to Stephen: 

— I hope you will live to see it published. Myles, one moment. 

He went into the inner office, closing the door behind him 

— Come along, Stephen, the professor said. That is fine, isn't it? It has the prophetic vision. Fuit 
Ilium! The sack of windy Troy. Kingdoms of this world. The masters of the Mediterranean are 
fellaheen today. 

The first newsboy came pattering down the stairs at their heels and rushed out into the street, 
yelling: 

— Racing special! 

Dublin I have much, much to learn. 

They turned to the left along Abbey street. 

— I have a vision too, Stephen said. 

— Yes? the professor said, skipping to get into step. Crawford will follow. 

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Another newsboy shot past them, yelling as he ran: 
— Racing special! 

DEAR DIRTY DUBLIN 

Dub liners. 

— Two Dublin vestals, Stephen said, elderly and pious, have lived fifty and fiftythree years in 
Fumbally's lane. 

— Where is that? the professor asked. 

— OfFBlackpitts, Stephen said. 

Damp night reeking of hungry dough. Against the wai Face glistering tallow under her fustian 
shawL Frantic hearts. Akasic records. Quicker, darlint! 

On now. Dare it. Let there be life. 

— They want to see the views of Dublin from the top of Nelson's pillar. They save up three and 
tenpence in a red tin letterbox moneybox. They shake out the threepenny bits and sixpences and coax 
out the pennies with the blade of a knife. Two and three in silver and one and seven in coppers. They 
put on their bonnets and best clothes and take their umbrellas for fear it may come on to rain. 

— Wise virgins, professor MacHugh said. 

LIFE ON THE RAW 

— They buy one and fourpenceworth of brawn and four slices of panloaf at the north city 
diningrooms in Marlborough street from Miss Kate Collins, proprietress... They purchase four and 
twenty ripe plums from a girl at the foot of Nelson's pillar to take off the thirst of the brawn. They give 
two threepenny bits to the gentleman at the turnstile and begin to waddle slowly up the winding 
staircase, grunting, encouraging each other, afraid of the dark, panting, one asking the other have you 
the brawn, praising God and the Blessed Virgin, threatening to come down, peeping at the airslits. 
Glory be to God. They had no idea it was that high. 

Their names are Anne Kearns and Florence MacCabe. Anne Kearns has the lumbago for which 
she rubs on Lourdes water, given her by a lady who got a bottleful from a passionist father. Florence 
MacCabe takes a crubeen and a bottle of double X for supper every Saturday. 

— Antithesis, the professor said nodding twice. Vestal virgins. I can see them What's keeping our 
friend? 

He turned. 

A bevy of scampering newsboys rushed down the steps, scattering in all directions, yelling, their 
white papers fluttering. Hard after them Myles Crawford appeared on the steps, his hat aureoling his 
scarlet face, talking with J. J. O'Molloy. 

— Come along, the professor cried, waving his arm 

He set off again to walk by Stephen's side. RETURN OF BLOOM 

— Yes, he said. I see them 

Mr Bloom, breathless, caught in a whirl of wild newsboys near the offices of the Irish Catholic and 

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Dublin Penny Journal, called: 
— Mr Crawford! A moment! 
— Telegraph] Racing special! 

— What is it? Myles Crawford said, falling back a pace. 
A newsboy cried in Mr Bloom's face: 
— Terrible tragedy in Rathmines! A child bit by a bellows! 

INTERVIEW WITH THE EDITOR 

— Just this ad, Mr Bloom said, pushing through towards the steps, puffing, and taking the cutting 
from his pocket. I spoke with Mr Keyes just now. He'll give a renewal for two months, he says. After 
he'll see. But he wants a par to call attention in the Telegraph too, the Saturday pink. And he wants it 
copied if it's not too late I told councillor Nannetti from the Kilkenny People. I can have access to it 
in the national library. House of keys, don't you see? His name is Keyes. It's a play on the name. But 
he practically promised he'd give the renewal. But he wants just a little puff What will I tell him, Mr 
Crawford? K.M.A. 

— Will you tell him he can kiss my arse? Myles Crawford said throwing out his arm for emphasis. 
Tell him that straight from the stable. 

A bit nervy. Look out for squalls. All off for a drink. Arm in arm Lenehan's yachting cap on the 
cadge beyond. Usual blarney. Wonder is that young Dedahis the moving spirit. Has a good pair of 
boots on him today. Last time I saw him he had his heels on view. Been walking in muck somewhere. 
Careless chap. What was he doing in Irishtown? 

— Well, Mr Bloom said, his eyes returning, if I can get the design I suppose it's worth a short par. 
He'd give the ad, I think. I'll tell him... K.M.RIA. 

— He can kiss my royal Irish arse, Myles Crawford cried loudly over his shoulder. Any time he 
likes, tell him 

While Mr Bloom stood weighing the point and about to smile he strode on jerkily. 

RAISING THE WIND 

— Nulla bona, Jack, he said, raising his hand to his chin. I'm up to here. I've been through the hoop 
myself I was looking for a fellow to back a bill for me no later than last week. Sorry, Jack. You must 
take the will for the deed. With a heart and a half if I could raise the wind anyhow. 

J. J. O'Molloy pulled a long face and walked on silently. They caught up on the others and walked 
abreast. 

— When they have eaten the brawn and the bread and wiped their twenty fingers in the paper the 
bread was wrapped in they go nearer to the railings. 

— Something for you, the professor explained to Myles Crawford. Two old Dublin women on the 
top of Nelson's pillar. 

SOME COLUMN!— THAT'S WHAT WADDLER ONE SAID 

— That's new, Myles Crawford said. That's copy. Out for the waxies Dargle. Two old trickies, 

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what? 

— But they are afraid the pillar will fall, Stephen went on. They see the roofs and argue about where 
the different churches are: Rathmines' blue dome, Adam and Eve's, saint Laurence O'Toole's. But it 
makes them giddy to look so they pull up their skirts... 

THOSE SLIGHTLY RAMBUNCTIOUS FEMALES 

— Easy all, Myles Crawford said. No poetic licence. We're in the archdiocese here. 

— And settle down on their striped petticoats, peering up at the statue of the onehandled adulterer. 

— Onehandled adulterer! the professor cried. I like that. I see the idea. I see what you mean. 

DAMES DONATE DUBLIN'S CITS SPEEDPILLS VELOCITOUS AEROLITHS, BELIEF 

— It gives them a crick in their necks, Stephen said, and they are too tired to look up or down or to 
speak. They put the bag of plums between them and eat the plums out of it, one after another, wiping 
off with their handkerchiefs the plumjuice that dribbles out of their mouths and spitting the pLimstones 
slowly out between the railings. 

He gave a sudden loud young laugh as a close. Lenehan and Mr O'Madden Burke, hearing, turned, 
beckoned and led on across towards Mooney's. 

— Finished? Myles Crawford said. So long as they do no worse. 

SOPHIST WALLOPS HAUGHTY HELEN SQUARE ON PROBOSCIS. SPARTANS 
GNASH MOLARS. ITHACANS VOW PEN IS CHAMP. 

— You remind me of Antisthenes, the professor said, a disciple of Gorgias, the sophist. It is said of 
him that none could tell if he were bitterer against others or against himself He was the son of a noble 
and a bondwoman. And he wrote a book in which he took away the palm of beauty from Argive 
Helen and handed it to poor Penelope. 

Poor Penelope. Penelope Rich. 

They made ready to cross O'Connell street. 

HELLO THERE, CENTRAL! 

At various points along the eight lines tramcars with motionless trolleys stood in their tracks, bound 
for or from Rathmines, Rathfarnham, Bkckrock, Kingstown and Dalkey, Sandymount Green, 
Ringsend and Sandymount Tower, Donnybrook, Palmerston Park and Upper Rathmines, all still, 
becalmed in short circuit. Hackney cars, cabs, delivery waggons, mailvans, private broughams, 
aerated mineral water floats with rattling crates of bottles, rattled, rolled, horsedrawn, rapidly. 

WHAT?— AND LIKEWISE— WHERE? 

— But what do you call it? Myles Crawford asked. Where did they get the plums? 

VIRGILIAN, SAYS PEDAGOGUE. SOPHOMORE PLUMPS FOR OLD MAN MOSES. 

— Call it, wait, the professor said, opening his long lips wide to reflect. Call it, let me see. Call it: 
deus nobis haec otia fecit. 

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— No, Stephen said. I call rtA Pisgah Sight of Palestine or the Parable of The Plums. 

— I see, the professor said. 

He laughed richly. 

— I see, he said again with new pleasure. Moses and the promised land. We gave him that idea, he 
added to J. J. O'Molloy. 

HORATIO IS CYNOSURE THIS FAIR JUNE DAY 

J. J. O'Molloy sent a weary sidelong glance towards the statue and held his peace. 

— I see, the professor said. 

He halted on sir John Gray's pavement island and peered aloft at Nelson through the meshes of his 
wry smile. 

DIMINISHED DIGITS PROVE TOO TITILLATING FOR FRISKY FRUMPS. ANNE 
WIMBLES, FLO WANGLES— YET CAN YOU BLAME THEM? 

— Onehandled adulterer, he said smiling grimly. That tickles me, I must say. 

— Tickled the old ones too, Myles Crawford said, if the God Almighty's truth was known. 

Pineapple rock, lemon pktt, butter scotch. A sugarsticky girl shovelling scoopfuls of creams for a 
christian brother. Some school treat. Bad for their tummies. Lozenge and comfit manufacturer to His 
Majesty the King. God. Save. Our. Sitting on his throne sucking red jujubes white. 

A sombre Y.M.C.A. young man, watchftil among the warm sweet fumes of Graham Lemon's, 
placed a throwaway in a hand of Mr Bloom 

Heart to heart talks. 

Bloo... Me? No. 

Bbod of the Lamb. 

His slow feet walked him riverward, reading. Are you saved? All are washed in the blood of the 
lamb. God wants blood victim Birth, hymen, martyr, war, foundation of a building, sacrifice, kidney 
burntoffering, druids' altars. Elijah is coming. Dr John Alexander Dowie restorer of the church in Zion 
is coming. 

Is coming! Is coming!! Is coming!!! All heartily welcome. Paying game. Torry and Alexander last 
year. Polygamy. His wife will put the stopper on that. Where was that ad some Birmingham firm the 
luminous crucifix. Our Saviour. Wake up in the dead of night and see him on the wall, hanging. 
Pepper's ghost idea. Iron nails ran in 

Phosphorus it must be done with If you leave a bit of codfish for instance. I could see the btuey 
silver over it. Night I went down to the pantry in the kitchen. Don't like all the smells in it waiting to 
rush out. What was it she wanted? The Malaga raisins. Thinking of Spain. Before Rudy was born. The 
phosphorescence, that btuey greeny. Very good for the brain. 

From Butler's monument house corner he glanced along Bachelor's walk. Dedatus' daughter there 
still outside Dillon's auctionrooms. Must be selling off some old furniture. Knew her eyes at once from 
the father. Lobbing about waiting for him Home always breaks up when the mother goes. Fifteen 
children he had. Birth every year almost. That's in their theology or the priest won't give the poor 
woman the confession, the absolution. Increase and multiply. Did you ever hear such an idea? Eat you 

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out of house and home. No families themselves to feed. Living on the fat of the land. Their butteries 
and larders. I'd like to see them do the black fast YomKippur. Crossbuns. One meal and a collation 
for fear he'd collapse on the altar. A housekeeper of one of those fellows if you could pick it out of 
her. Never pick it out of her. Like getting Ls.d. out of him Does himself well No guests. All for 
number one. Watching his water. Bring your own bread and butter. His reverence: mum's the word. 

Good Lord, that poor child's dress is in flitters. Underfed she looks too. Potatoes and marge, 
marge and potatoes. It's after they feel it. Proof of the pudding. Undermines the constitution 

As he set foot on O'Connell bridge a puftball of smoke plumed up from the parapet. Brewery barge 
with export stout. England. Sea air sours it, I heard. Be interesting some day get a pass through 
Hancock to see the brewery. Regular world in itself Vats of porter wonderful Rats get in too. Drink 
themselves bloated as big as a collie floating. Dead drunk on the porter. Drink till they puke again like 
christians. Imagine drinking that! Rats: vats. Well, of course, if we knew all the things. 

Looking down he saw flapping strongly, wheeling between the gaunt quaywalls, gulls. Rough 
weather outside. If I threw myself down? Reuben Js son must have swallowed a good bellyful of that 
sewage. One and eightpence too much. Hhhhm It's the droll way he comes out with the things. 
Knows how to tell a story too. 

They wheeled lower. Looking for grub. Wait. 

He threw down among them a crumpled paper ball Elijah thirtytwo feet per sec is com Not a bit. 
The ball bobbed unheeded on the wake of swells, floated under by the bridgepiers. Not such damn 
fools. Also the day I threw that stale cake out of the Erin's King picked it up in the wake fifty yards 
astern. Live by their wits. They wheeled, flapping. 

The hungry famished gull 
Flaps o 'er the waters dull. 

That is how poets write, the similar sounds. But then Shakespeare has no rhymes: blank verse. The 
flow of the language it is. The thoughts. Solemn. 

Hamlet, I am thy father's spirit 

Doomed for a certain time to walk the earth. 

— Two apples a penny! Two for a penny! 

His gaze passed over the glazed apples serried on her stand. Australians they must be this time of 
year. Shiny peels: polishes them up with a rag or a handkerchief 

Wait. Those poor birds. 

He halted again and bought from the old applewoman two Banbury cakes for a penny and broke 
the brittle paste and threw its fragments down into the Lifley. See that? The gulls swooped silently, 
two, then all from their heights, pouncing on prey. Gone. Every morseL 

Aware of their greed and cunning he shook the powdery crumb from his hands. They never 
expected that. Manna. Live on fish fishy flesh they have, all seabirds, gulls, seagoose. Swans from 
Anna Lifley swim down here sometimes to preen themselves. No accounting for tastes. Wonder what 
kind is swanmeat. Robinson Crusoe had to live on them 

They wheeled flapping weakly. I'm not going to throw any more. Penny quite enough. Lot of thanks 
I get. Not even a caw. They spread foot and mouth disease too. If you cram a turkey say on 
chestnutmeal it tastes like that. Eat pig like pig. But then why is it that saltwater fish are not salty? How 
is that? 

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His eyes sought answer from the river and saw a rowboat rock at anchor on the treacly swells lazily 
its plastered board. 

Kino's 11/- Trousers 

Good idea that. Wonder if he pays rent to the corporatioa How can you own water realty? It's 
always flowing in a stream, never the same, which in the stream of life we trace. Because life is a 
stream All kinds of places are good for ads. That quack doctor for the clap used to be stuck up in all 
the greenhouses. Never see it now. Strictly confidential. Dr Hy Franks. Didn't cost him a red like 
Maginni the dancing master self advertisement. Got fellows to stick them up or stick them up himself 
for that matter on the q. t. running in to loosen a button. Ffybynight. Just the place too. POST NO 
BILLS. POST 110 PILLS. Some chap with a dose burning him 

If he...? 

O! 

Eh? 

No... No. 

No, no. I don't believe it. He wouldn't surely? 

No, no. 

Mr Bloom moved forward, raising his troubled eyes. Think no more about that. After one. Timeball 
on the ballastoffice is down. Dunsink time. Fascinating little book that is of sir Robert Ball's. Parallax. I 
never exactly understood. There's a priest. Could ask him Par it's Greek: parallel, parallax. Met him 
pike hoses she called it till I told her about the transmigration. O rocks! 

Mr Bloom smiled O rocks at two windows of the ballastoffice. She's right after all Only big words 
for ordinary things on account of the sound. She's not exactly witty. Can be rude too. Blurt out what I 
was thinking. Still, I don't know. She used to say Ben Dollard had a base barreltone voice. He has 
legs like barrels and you'd think he was singing into a barreL Now, isn't that wit. They used to call him 
big Ben. Not half as witty as calling him base barreltone. Appetite like an albatross. Get outside of a 
baron of beef Powerful man he was at stowing away number one Bass. Barrel of Bass. See? It all 
works out. 

A procession of whitesmocked sandwichmen marched slowly towards him along the gutter, scarlet 
sashes across their boards. Bargains. Like that priest they are this morning: we have sinned: we have 
suffered. He read the scarlet letters on their five tall white hats: H. E. L. Y. S. Wisdom Hefy's. Y 
lagging behind drew a chunk of bread from under his foreboard, crammed it into his mouth and 
munched as he walked. Our staple food. Three bob a day, walking along the gutters, street after 
street. Just keep skin and bone together, bread and skilly. They are not Boyl: no, M Glade's men. 
Doesn't bring in any business either. I suggested to him about a transparent showcart with two smart 
girls sitting inside writing letters, copybooks, envelopes, blottingpaper. I bet that would have caught 
on. Smart girls writing something catch the eye at once. Everyone dying to know what she's writing. 
Get twenty of them round you if you stare at nothing. Have a finger in the pie. Women too. Curiosity. 
Pillar of salt. Wouldn't have it of course because he didn't think of it himself first. Or the inkbottle I 
suggested with a false stain of black celluloid. His ideas for ads like Phimtree's potted under the 
obituaries, cold meat department. You can't lick 'em What? Our envelopes. Hello, Jones, where are 
you going? Can't stop, Robinson, I am hastening to purchase the only reliable inkeraser Kansell, sold 
by Hefy's Ltd, 85 Dame street. Well out of that ruck I am Devil of a job it was collecting accounts of 
those convents. Tranquilla convent. That was a nice nun there, realty sweet face. Wimple suited her 
small head. Sister? Sister? I am sure she was crossed in love by her eyes. Very hard to bargain with 

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that sort of a woman. I disturbed her at her devotions that morning. But glad to communicate with the 
outside world. Our great day, she said. Feast of Our Lady of Mount CarmeL Sweet name too: 
caramel. She knew I, I think she knew by the way she. If she had married she would have changed. I 
suppose they realty were short of money. Fried everything in the best butter all the same. No lard for 
them My heart's broke eating dripping. They like buttering themselves in and out. Molly tasting it, her 
veil up. Sister? Pat Claffey, the pawnbroker's daughter. It was a nun they say invented barbed wire. 

He crossed Westmoreland street when apostrophe S had plodded by. Rover cycleshop. Those 
races are on today. How long ago is that? Year Phil Gilligan died. We were in Lombard street west. 
Wait: was in Thorn's. Got the job in Wisdom Hery's year we married. Six years. Ten years ago: 
ninetyfour he died yes that's right the big fire at Arnott's. Val Dillon was lord mayor. The Glencree 
dinner. Alderman Robert O'Reilly emptying the port into his soup before the flag fell Bobbob lapping 
it for the inner alderman. Couldn't hear what the band played. For what we have already received may 
the Lord make us. Milry was a kiddy then. Molly had that elephantgrey dress with the braided frogs. 
Mantailored with selfcovered buttons. She didn't like it because I sprained my ankle first day she wore 
choir picnic at the Sugarloaf As if that. Old Goodwin's tall hat done up with some sticky stuff Flies' 
picnic too. Never put a dress on her back like it. Fitted her like a glove, shoulders and hips. Just 
beginning to plump it out well Rabbitpie we had that day. People looking after her. 

Happy. Happier then Snug little room that was with the red wallpaper. Dockrell's, one and 
ninepence a dozen. Milfy's tubbing night. American soap I bought: elderflower. Cosy smell of her 
bathwater. Funny she looked soaped all over. Shapely too. Now photography. Poor papa's 
daguerreotype atelier he told me of Hereditary taste. 

He walked along the curbstone. 

Stream of life. What was the name of that priestylooking chap was always squinting in when he 
passed? Weak eyes, woman. Stopped in Citron's saint Kevin's parade. Pen something. Pendennis? 
My memory is getting. Pen ...? Of course it's years ago. Noise of the trams probably. Well, if he 
couldn't remember the dayfather's name that he sees every day. 

Bartell d'Arcy was the tenor, just coming out then Seeing her home after practice. Conceited fellow 
with his waxedup moustache. Gave her that song Winds that blow from the south. 

Windy night that was I went to fetch her there was that lodge meeting on about those lottery tickets 
after Goodwin's concert in the supperroom or oakroom of the Mansion house. He and I behind. Sheet 
of her music blew out of my hand against the High school railings. Lucky it didn't. Thing like that spoils 
the effect of a night for her. Professor Goodwin linking her in front. Shaky on his pins, poor old sot. 
His farewell concerts. Positively last appearance on any stage. May be for months and may be for 
never. Remember her laughing at the wind, her blizzard collar up. Corner of Harcourt road remember 
that gust. Brrfoo! Blew up all her skirts and her boa nearly smothered old Goodwin. She did get 
flushed in the wind. Remember when we got home raking up the fire and frying up those pieces of lap 
of mutton for her supper with the Chutney sauce she liked. And the mulled rum Could see her in the 
bedroom from the hearth unclamping the busk of her stays: white. 

Swish and soft flop her stays made on the bed. Always warm from her. Always liked to let her self 
out. Sitting there after till near two taking out her hairpins. Milry tucked up in beddyhouse. Happy. 
Happy. That was the night... 

— O, Mr Bloom, how do you do? 

— O, how do you do, Mrs Breen? 

— No use complaining. How is Molly those times? Haven't seen her for ages. 

— In the pink, Mr Bloom said gaily. Milry has a position down in Mullingar, you know. 

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— Go away! Isn't that grand for her? 

— Yes. In a photographer's there. Getting on like a house on fire. How are all your charges? 

— All on the baker's list, Mrs Breen said. 

How many has she? No other in sight. 

— You're in black, I see. You have no... 

— No, Mr Bloom said. I have just come from a funeraL 

Going to crop up all day, I foresee. Who's dead, when and what did he die of? Turn up like a bad 
penny. 

— O, dear me, Mrs Breen said. I hope it wasn't any near relation 

May as well get her sympathy. 

— Dignam, Mr Bloom said. An old friend of mine. He died quite suddenly, poor fellow. Heart 
trouble, I believe. Funeral was this morning. 

Your funeral's tomorrow While you're coming through the rye. Diddlediddle dumdum 
Diddlediddle. . . 

— Sad to lose the old friends, Mrs Breen's womaneyes said melancholiry. 

Now that's quite enough about that. Just: quietly: husband. 

— And your lord and master? 

Mrs Breen turned up her two large eyes. Hasn't lost them anyhow. 

— O, don't be talking! she said. He's a caution to rattlesnakes. He's in there now with his lawbooks 
finding out the law of libeL He has me heartscalded. Wait till I show you 

Hot mockturtle vapour and steam ofnewbaked jampuffs rorypofy poured out from Harrison's. The 
heavy noonreek tickled the top of Mr Bloom's gullet. Want to make good pastry, butter, best flour, 
Demerara sugar, or they'd taste it with the hot tea. Or is it from her? A barefoot arab stood over the 
grating, breathing in the fumes. Deaden the gnaw of hunger that way. Pleasure or pain is it? Penny 
dinner. Knife and fork chained to the table. 

Opening her handbag, chipped leather. Hatpin: ought to have a guard on those things. Stick it in a 
chap's eye in the tram Rummaging. Open. Money. Please take one. Devils if they lose sixpence. Raise 
Cain. Husband barging. Where's the ten shillings I gave you on Monday? Are you feeding your little 
brother's family? Soiled handkerchief: medicinebottle. Pastille that was fell. What is she?... 

— There must be a new moon out, she said. He's always bad then. Do you know what he did last 
night? 

Her hand ceased to rummage. Her eyes fixed themselves on him, wide in alarm, yet smiling 

— What? Mr Bloom asked. 

Let her speak. Look straight in her eyes. I believe you. Trust me. 

— Woke me up in the night, she said. Dream he had, a nightmare. 

Indiges. 

— Said the ace of spades was walking up the stairs. 

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— The ace of spades! Mr Bloom said. 

She took a folded postcard from her handbag. 

— Read that, she said. He got it this morning 

— What is it? Mr Bloom asked, taking the card. U.P.? 

— U.P.: up, she said. Someone taking a rise out of him It's a great shame for them whoever he is. 

— Indeed it is, Mr Bloom said. 

She took back the card, sighing. 

— And now he's going round to Mr Menton's office. He's going to take an action for ten thousand 
pounds, he says. 

She folded the card into her untidy bag and snapped the catch. 

Same blue serge dress she had two years ago, the nap bleaching. Seen its best days. Wispish hair 
over her ears. And that dowdy toque: three old grapes to take the harm out of it. Shabby genteeL She 
used to be a tasty dresser. Lines round her mouth. Only a year or so older than Molly. 

See the eye that woman gave her, passing. CrueL The unfair sex. 

He looked still at her, holding back behind his look his discontent. Pungent mockturtle oxtail 
mulligatawny. I'm hungry too. Flakes of pastry on the gusset of her dress: daub of sugary flour stuck to 
her cheek. Rhubarb tart with liberal fillings, rich fruit interior. Josie Powell that was. In Luke Doyle's 
long ago. Dolphin's Barn, the charades. U.P.: up. 

Change the subject. 

— Do you ever see anything of Mrs Beaufoy? Mr Bloom asked. 

— Mina Purefoy? she said. 

Philip Beaufoy I was thinking. Playgoers' Club. Matcham often thinks of the masterstroke. Did I 
pull the chain? Yes. The last act. 

—Yes. 

— I just called to ask on the way in is she over it. She's in the lying-in hospital in Holies street. Dr 
Home got her in. She's three days bad now. 

— O, Mr Bloom said. I'm sorry to hear that. 

— Yes, Mrs Breen said. And a houseful of kids at home. It's a very stiff birth the nurse told me. 

— O, Mr Bloom said. 

His heavy pitying gaze absorbed her news. His tongue clacked in compassion. Dth! Dth! 

— I'm sorry to hear that, he said. Poor thing! Three days! That's terrible for her. 

Mrs Breen nodded. 

— She was taken bad on the Tuesday... 

Mr Bloom touched her funnybone gentry, warning her: 

— Mind! Let this man pass. 

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A bony form strode along the curbstone from the river staring with a rapt gaze into the sunlight 
through a heavystringed glass. Tight as a skullpiece a tiny hat gripped his head. From his arm a folded 
dustcoat, a stick and an umbrella dangled to his stride. 

— Watch him, Mr Bloom said. He always walks outside the lampposts. Watch! 

— Who is he if it's a fair question? Mrs Breen asked. Is he dotty? 

— His name is Cashel Boyle O'Connor Fitzmaurice Tisdall Farrell, Mr Bloom said smiling. Watch! 

— He has enough of them, she said. Denis will be like that one of these days. 

She broke off suddenly. 

— There he is, she said. I must go after him Goodbye. Remember me to Molly, won't you? 

— I will, Mr Bloom said. 

He watched her dodge through passers towards the shopfronts. Denis Breen in skimpy frockcoat 
and blue canvas shoes shuffled out of Harrison's hugging two heavy tomes to his ribs. Blown in from 
the bay. Like old times. He suffered her to overtake him without surprise and thrust his dull grey beard 
towards her, his loose jaw wagging as he spoke earnestly. 

Meshuggah. Off his chump. 

Mr Bloom walked on again easily, seeing ahead of him in sunlight the tight skullpiece, the dangling 
stickumbrelladustcoat. Going the two days. Watch him! Out he goes again One way of getting on in 
the world. And that other old mosey lunatic in those duds. Hard time she must have with him 

U.P.: up. I'll take my oath that's Alf Bergan or Richie Goulding Wrote it for a lark in the Scotch 
house I bet anything. Round to Menton's office. His oyster eyes staring at the postcard. Be a feast for 
the gods. 

He passed the Irish Times. There might be other answers lying there. Like to answer them all. 
Good system for criminals. Code. At their lunch now. Clerk with the glasses there doesn't know me. 
O, leave them there to simmer. Enough bother wading through fortyfour of them Wanted, smart lady 
typist to aid gentleman in literary work. I called you naughty darling because I do not like that other 
world. Please tell me what is the meaning. Please tell me what perfume does your wife. Tell me who 
made the world. The way they spring those questions on you And the other one Lizzie Twigg. My 
literary efforts have had the good fortune to meet with the approval of the eminent poet A. E. (Mr 
Geo. Russell). No time to do her hair drinking sloppy tea with a book of poetry. 

Best paper by long chalks for a small ad. Got the provinces now. Cook and general, exc. cuisine, 
housemaid kept. Wanted live man for spirit counter. Resp. girl (RC.) wishes to hear of post in fruit or 
pork shop. James Carlisle made that. Six and a half per cent dividend. Made a big deal on Coates's 
shares. Ca' canny. Cunning old Scotch hunks. All the toady news. Our gracious and popular vicereine. 
Bought the Irish Field now. Lady Mountcashel has quite recovered after her confinement and rode 
out with the Ward Union staghounds at the enlargement yesterday at Rathoath Uneatable fox. 
Pothunters too. Fear injects juices make it tender enough for them Riding astride. Sit her horse like a 
man. Weightcarrying huntress. No sidesaddle or pillion for her, not for Joe. First to the meet and in at 
the death Strong as a brood mare some of those horsey women. Swagger around livery stables. Toss 
off a glass of brandy neat while you'd say knife. That one at the Grosvenor this morning. Up with her 
on the car: wishswish Stonewall or fivebarred gate put her mount to it. Think that pugnosed driver did 
it out of spite. Who is this she was like? O yes! Mrs Miriam Dandrade that sold me her old wraps and 
black underclothes in the Shelbourne hoteL Divorced Spanish American. Didn't take a feather out of 
her my handling them As if I was her clotheshorse. Saw her in the viceregal party when Stubbs the 

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park ranger got me in with Whelan of the Express. Scavenging what the quality left. High tea. 
Mayonnaise I poured on the plums thinking it was custard. Her ears ought to have tingled for a few 
weeks after. Want to be a bull for her. Born courtesan. No nursery work for her, thanks. 

Poor Mrs Purefoy! Methodist husband. Method in his madness. Saffron bun and milk and soda 
lunch in the educational dairy. Y. M. C. A. Eating with a stopwatch, thirtytwo chews to the minute. 
And still his muttonchop whiskers grew. Supposed to be well connected. Theodore's cousin in Dublin 
Castle. One tony relative in every family. Hardy annuals he presents her with. Saw him out at the 
Three Jolly Topers marching along bareheaded and his eldest boy carrying one in a marketnet. The 
squallers. Poor thing! Then having to give the breast year after year all hours of the night. Selfish those 
it's are. Dog in the manger. Only one Limp of sugar in my tea, if you please. 

He stood at Fleet street crossing. Luncheon interval. A sixpenny at Rowe's? Must look up that ad 
in the national library. An eightpenny in the Burton. Better. On my way. 

He walked on past Bolton's Westmoreland house. Tea. Tea. Tea. I forgot to tap TomKernan. 

Sss. Dth, dth, dth! Three days imagine groaning on a bed with a vinegared handkerchief round her 
forehead, her belly swollen out. Phew! Dreadful simply! Child's head too big: forceps. Doubled up 
inside her trying to butt its way out blindly, groping for the way out. Kill me that would. Lucky Molly 
got over hers lightly. They ought to invent something to stop that. Life with hard labour. Twilight sleep 
idea: queen Victoria was given that. Nine she had. A good layer. Old woman that lived in a shoe she 
had so many children. Suppose he was consumptive. Time someone thought about it instead of 
gassing about the what was it the pensive bosom of the silver effulgence. Flapdoodle to feed fools on. 
They could easily have big establishments whole thing quite painless out of all the taxes give every child 
born five quid at compound interest up to twentyone five per cent is a hundred shillings and five 
tiresome pounds multiply by twenty decimal system encourage people to put by money save hundred 
and ten and a bit twentyone years want to work it out on paper come to a tidy sum more than you 
think. 

Not stillborn of course. They are not even registered. Trouble for nothing. 

Funny sight two of them together, their bellies out. Molly and Mrs Moisel. Mothers' meeting. 
Phthisis retires for the time being, then returns. How flat they look all of a sudden after. Peaceful eyes. 
Weight off their mind. Old Mrs Thornton was a jolly old soul. All my babies, she said. The spoon of 
pap in her mouth before she fed them O, that's nyumnyum Got her hand crushed by old Tom Wall's 
son. His first bow to the public. Head like a prize pumpkin Snuffy Dr Murren People knocking them 
up at all hours. For God' sake, doctor. Wife in her throes. Then keep them waiting months for their 
fee. To attendance on your wife. No gratitude in people. Humane doctors, most of them 

Before the huge high door of the Irish house of parliament a flock of pigeons flew. Their little frolic 
after meals. Who will we do it on? I pick the fellow in black. Here goes. Here's good luck. Must be 
thrilling from the air. Apjohn, myself and Owen Goldberg up in the trees near Goose green playing the 
monkeys. Mackerel they called me. 

A squad of constables debouched from College street, marching in Indian file. Goosestep. 
Foodheated faces, sweating helmets, patting their truncheons. After their feed with a good load of fat 
soup under their belts. Policeman's lot is oft a happy one. They split up in groups and scattered, 
saluting, towards their beats. Let out to graze. Best moment to attack one in pudding time. A punch in 
his dinner. A squad of others, marching irregularly, rounded Trinity railings making for the station. 
Bound for their troughs. Prepare to receive cavalry. Prepare to receive soup. 

He crossed under Tommy Moore's roguish finger. They did right to put him up over a urinal: 
meeting of the waters. Ought to be places for women. Running into cakeshops. Settle my hat straight. 
There is not in this wide world a vallee. Great song of Julia Morkan's. Kept her voice up to the 

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very last. Pupil of Michael Balfe's, wasn't she? 

He gazed after the last broad tunic. Nasty customers to tackle. Jack Power could a tale unfold: 
father a G man. If a fellow gave them trouble being lagged they let him have it hot and heavy in the 
bridewell. Can't blame them after all with the job they have especially the young hornies. That 
horsepoliceman the day Joe Chamberlain was given his degree in Trinity he got a run for his money. 
My word he did! His horse's hoofs clattering after us down Abbey street. Lucky I had the presence of 
mind to dive into Manning's or I was souped. He did come a wallop, by George. Must have cracked 
his skull on the cobblestones. I oughtn't to have got myself swept along with those medicals. And the 
Trinity jibs in their mortarboards. Looking for trouble. Still I got to know that young Dixon who 
dressed that sting for me in the Mater and now he's in Holies street where Mrs Purefoy. Wheels within 
wheels. Police whistle in my ears still. All skedaddled. Why he fixed on me. Give me in charge. Right 
here it began 

— Up the Boers! 

— Three cheers for De Wet! 

— We'll hang Joe Chamberlain on a sourapple tree. 

Silly billies: mob of young cubs yelling their guts out. Vinegar hill. The Butter exchange band. Few 
years' time half of them magistrates and civil servants. War comes on: into the army he lterske Iter: same 
fellows used to. Whether on the scaffold high. 

Never know who you're talking to. Corny Kelleher he has Harvey Duff in his eye. Like that Peter 
or Denis or James Carey that blew the gaff on the invincibles. Member of the corporation too. Egging 
raw youths on to get in the know all the time drawing secret service pay from the castle. Drop him like 
a hot potato. Why those plainclothes men are always courting slaveys. Easily twig a man used to 
uniform Squarepushingup against a backdoor. Maul her a bit. Then the next thing on the menu. And 
who is the gentleman does be visiting there? Was the young master saying anything? Peeping Tom 
through the keyhole. Decoy duck. Hotblooded young student fooling round her fat arms ironing. 

— Are those yours, Mary? 

— I don't wear such things... Stop or I'll tell the missus on you Out half the night. 

— There are great times coming, Mary. Wait till you see. 

— Ah, gelong with your great times coming. 

Barmaids too. Tobaccoshopgirls. 

James Stephens' idea was the best. He knew them Circles often so that a fellow couldn't round on 
more than his own ring. Sinn Fein. Back out you get the knife. Hidden hand. Stay in. The firing squad. 
Turnkey's daughter got him out of Richmond, off from Lusk. Putting up in the Buckingham Palace 
hotel under their very noses. Garibaldi. 

You must have a certain fascination: ParnelL Arthur Griffith is a squareheaded fellow but he has no 
go in him for the mob. Or gas about our lovely land. Gammon and spinach. Dublin Bakery Company's 
tearoom Debating societies. That republicanism is the best form of government. That the language 
question should take precedence of the economic question. Have your daughters inveigling them to 
your house. Stuff them up with meat and drink. Michaelmas goose. Here's a good Limp of thyme 
seasoning under the apron for you. Have another quart of goosegrease before it gets too cold. Halffed 
enthusiasts. Penny roll and a walk with the band. No grace for the carver. The thought that the other 
chap pays best sauce in the world. Make themselves thoroughly at home. Show us over those 
apricots, meaning peaches. The not far distant day. Homerule sun rising up in the northwest. 

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His smile faded as he walked, a heavy cloud hiding the sun slowly, shadowing Trinity's surly front. 
Trams passed one another, ingoing, outgoing, clanging. Useless words. Things go on same, day after 
day: squads of police marching out, back: trams in, out. Those two loonies mooching about. Dignam 
carted off Mina Purefoy swollen belly on a bed groaning to have a child tugged out of her. One born 
every second somewhere. Other dying every second. Since I fed the birds five minutes. Three 
hundred kicked the bucket. Other three hundred born, washing the blood off, all are washed in the 
blood of the lamb, bawling maaaaaa. 

Cityful passing away, other cityftil coming, passing away too: other coming on, passing on. Houses, 
lines of houses, streets, miles of pavements, piledup bricks, stones. Changing hands. This owner, that. 
Landlord never dies they say. Other steps into his shoes when he gets his notice to quit. They buy the 
place up with gold and still they have all the gold. Swindle in it somewhere. Piled up in cities, worn 
away age after age. Pyramids in sand. Built on bread and onions. Slaves Chinese wall Babylon. Big 
stones left. Round towers. Rest rubble, sprawling suburbs, jerrybuilt. Kerwan's mushroom houses built 
of breeze. Shelter, for the night. 

No-one is anything. 

This is the very worst hour of the day. Vitality. Dull, gloomy: hate this hour. Feel as if I had been 
eaten and spewed. 

Provost's house. The reverend Dr Salmon: tinned salmon. Well tinned in there. Like a mortuary 
chapel. Wouldn't live in it if they paid me. Hope they have liver and bacon today. Nature abhors a 
vacuum 

The sun freed itself slowly and lit glints of light among the silverware opposite in Walter Sexton's 
window by which John Howard Pame 11 passed, unseeing. 

There he is: the brother. Image of him Haunting face. Now that's a coincidence. Course hundreds 
of times you think of a person and don't meet him Like a man walking in his sleep. No-one knows 
him Must be a corporation meeting today. They say he never put on the city marshal's uniform since 
he got the job. Charley Kavanagh used to come out on his high horse, cocked hat, puffed, powdered 
and shaved. Look at the woebegone walk of him Eaten a bad egg. Poached eyes on ghost. I have a 
pain. Great man's brother: his brother's brother. He'd look nice on the city charger. Drop into the 
D.B.C. probably for his coffee, play chess there. His brother used men as pawns. Let them all go to 
pot. Afraid to pass a remark on him Freeze them up with that eye of his. That's the fascination: the 
name. All a bit touched. Mad Fanny and his other sister Mrs Dickinson driving about with scarlet 
harness. Bolt upright lik surgeon M'Ardle. Still David Sheehy beat him for south Meath. Apply for the 
Chiltern Hundreds and retire into public life. The patriot's banquet. Eating orangepeels in the park. 
Simon Dedalus said when they put him in parliament that Parnell would come back from the grave and 
lead him out of the house of commons by the arm. 

— Of the twoheaded octopus, one of whose heads is the head upon which the ends of the world 
have forgotten to come while the other speaks with a Scotch accent. The tentacles... 

They passed from behind Mr Bloom along the curbstone. Beard and bicycle. Young woman. 

And there he is too. Now that's really a coincidence: second time. Coming events cast their 
shadows before. With the approval of the eminent poet, Mr Geo. Russell. That might be Lizzie Twigg 
with him. A. E. : what does that mean? Initials perhaps. Albert Edward, Arthur Edmund, Alphonsus Eb 
Ed El Esquire. What was he saying? The ends of the world with a Scotch accent. Tentacles: octopus. 
Something occult: symbolism Holding forth. She's taking it all in Not saying a word. To aid gentleman 
in literary work. 

His eyes followed the high figure in homespun, beard and bicycle, a listening woman at his side. 

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Coming from the vegetarian Only weggebobbles and fruit. Don't eat a beefsteak. If you do the eyes 
of that cow will pursue you through all eternity. They say it's healthier. Windandwatery though. Tried 
it. Keep you on the run all day. Bad as a bloater. Dreams all night. Why do they call that thing they 
gave me nutsteak? Nutarians. Fruitarians. To give you the idea you are eating rumpsteak. Absurd. 
Salty too. They cook in soda. Keep you sitting by the tap all night. 

Her stockings are loose over her ankles. I detest that: so tasteless. Those literary etherial people 
they are all Dreamy, cloudy, symbolistic. Esthetes they are. I wouldn't be surprised if it was that kind 
of food you see produces the like waves of the brain the poetical. For example one of those 
policemen sweating Irish stew into their shirts you couldn't squeeze a line of poetry out of him Don't 
know what poetry is even. Must be in a certain mood. 

The dreamy cloudy gull 
Waves o'er the waters dull. 

He crossed at Nassau street comer and stood before the window of Yeates and Son, pricing the 
fieldglasses. Or will I drop into old Harris's and have a chat with young Sinclair? Wellmannered fellow. 
Probably at his lunch Must get those old glasses of mine set right. Goerz lenses six guineas. Germans 
making their way everywhere. Sell on easy terms to capture trade. Undercutting. Might chance on a 
pair in the railway lost property office. Astonishing the things people leave behind them in trains and 
cloakrooms. What do they be thinking about? Women too. Incredible. Last year travelling to Ennis 
had to pick up that farmer's daughter's ba and hand it to her at Limerick junction Unclaimed money 
too. There's a little watch up there on the roof of the bank to test those glasses by. 

His lids came down on the lower rims of his irides. Can't see it. If you imagine it's there you can 
almost see it. Can't see it. 

He faced about and, standing between the awnings, held out his right hand at arm's length towards 
the sun. Wanted to try that often Yes: completely. The tip of his little finger blotted out the sun's disk. 
Must be the focus where the rays cross. If I had black glasses. Interesting. There was a lot of talk 
about those sunspots when we were in Lombard street west. Looking up from the back garden. 
Terrific explosions they are. There will be a total eclipse this year: autumn some time. 

Now that I come to think of it that ball falls at Greenwich time. It's the clock is worked by an 
electric wire from Dunsink. Must go out there some first Saturday of the month. If I could get an 
introduction to professor Jory or learn up something about his family. That would do to: man always 
feels complimented. Flattery where least expected. Nobleman proud to be descended from some 
king's mistress. His foremother. Lay it on with a troweL Cap in hand goes through the land. Not go in 
and blurt out what you know you're not to: what's parallax? Show this gentleman the door. 

Ah. 

His hand fell to his side again. 

Never know anything about it. Waste of time. Gasballs spinning about, crossing each other, 
passing. Same old dingdong always. Gas: then solid: then world: then cold: then dead shell drifting 
around, frozen rock, like that pineapple rock. The moon. Must be a new moon out, she said. I believe 
there is. 

He went on by la maison Claire. 

Wait. The full moon was the night we were Sunday fortnight exactly there is a new moon. Walking 
down by the Tolka. Not bad for a Fairview moon. She was humming. The young May moon she's 
beaming, love. He other side of her. Elbow, arm He. Glowworm's la-amp is gleaming, love. Touch. 
Fingers. Asking. Answer. Yes. 

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Stop. Stop. If it was it was. Must. 

Mr Bloom, quickbreathing, slowlier walking passed Adam court. 

With a keep quiet relief his eyes took note this is the street here middle of the day of Bob Doran's 
bottle shoulders. On his annual bend, M Coy said. They drink in order to say or do something or 
cherchez lafemme. Up in the Coombe with chummies and streetwalkers and then the rest of the year 
sober as a judge. 

Yes. Thought so. Sloping into the Empire. Gone. Plain soda would do him good. Where Pat 
Kinsella had his Harp theatre before Whitbred ran the Queen's. Broth of a boy. Dion Boucicault 
business with his harvestmoon face in a poky bonnet. Three Purty Maids from School. How time flies, 
eh? Showing long red pantaloons under his skirts. Drinkers, drinking, laughed spluttering, their drink 
against their breath. More power, Pat. Coarse red: fun for drunkards: guffaw and smoke. Take off 
that white hat. His parboiled eyes. Where is he now? Beggar somewhere. The harp that once did 
starve us all 

I was happier then. Or was that I? Or am I now I? Twentyeight I was. She twentythree. When we 
left Lombard street west something changed. Could never like it again after Rudy. Can't bring back 
time. Like holding water in your hand. Would you go back to then? Just beginning then. Would you? 
Are you not happy in your home you poor little naughty boy? Wants to sew on buttons for me. I must 
answer. Write it in the library. 

Grafton street gay with housed awnings hired his senses. Muslin prints, silkdames and dowagers, 
jingle of harnesses, hoofthuds lowringing in the baking causeway. Thick feet that woman has in the 
white stockings. Hope the rain mucks them up on her. Countrybred chawbacon All the beef to the 
heels were in Always gives a woman clumsy feet. Molly looks out of plumb. 

He passed, dairying, the windows of Brown Thomas, silk mercers. Cascades of ribbons. Flimsy 
China silks. A tilted urn poured from its mouth a flood of bloodhued poplin: lustrous blood. The 
huguenots brought that here. La causa e santal Tara tara. Great chorus that. Taree tara. Must be 
washed in rainwater. Meyerbeer. Tara: bom bom bom 

Pincushions. I'm a long time threatening to buy one. Sticking them all over the place. Needles in 
window curtains. 

He bared slightly his left forearm Scrape: nearly gone. Not today anyhow. Must go back for that 
lotion For her birthday perhaps. Junejufyaugseptember eighth. Nearly three months off Then she 
mightn't like it. Women won't pick up pins. Say it cuts lo. 

Gleaming silks, petticoats on slim brass rails, rays of flat silk stockings. 

Useless to go back. Had to be. Tell me all. 

High voices. Sunwarm silk. Jingling harnesses. All for a woman, home and houses, silkwebs, silver, 
rich fruits spicy from Jaffa. AgendathNetaim Wealth of the world. 

A warm human plumpness settled down on his brain. His brain yielded. Perfume of embraces all 
him assailed. With hungered flesh obscurely, he mutely craved to adore. 

Duke street. Here we are. Must eat. The Burton. Feel better then 

He turned Combridge's corner, stl pursued. Jingling, hoofthuds. Perfumed bodies, warm, full All 
kissed, yielded: in deep summer fields, tangled pressed grass, in trickling hallways of tenements, along 
sofas, creaking beds. 

— Jack, love! 

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— Darling! 

— Kiss me, Reggy! 

— My boy! 

— Love! 

His heart astir he pushed in the door of the Burton restaurant. Stink gripped his trembling breath: 
pungent meatjuice, slush of greens. See the animals feed. 

Men, men, men. 

Perched on high stools by the bar, hats shoved back, at the tables calling for more bread no charge, 
swilling, wolfing gobfuls of sloppy food, their eyes bulging, wiping wetted moustaches. A paid 
suetfaced young man polished his tumbler knife fork and spoon with his napkin New set of microbes. 
A man with an infant's saucestained napkin tucked round him shovelled gurgling soup down his gullet. 
A man spitting back on his plate: halfinasticated gristle: gums: no teeth to chewchewchew it. Chump 
chop from the grill. Bolting to get it over. Sad booser's eyes. Bitten off more than he can chew. Am I 
like that? See ourselves as others see us. Hungry man is an angry man. Working tooth and jaw. Don't! 
O! A bone! That last pagan king of Ireland Cormac in the schoolpoem choked himself at Sletty 
southward of the Boyne. Wonder what he was eating. Something galoptious. Saint Patrick converted 
him to Christianity. Couldn't swallow it all however. 

— Roast beef and cabbage. 

— One stew. 

Smells of men His gorge rose. Spaton sawdust, sweetish warmish cigarette smoke, reek of plug, 
spilt beer, men's beery piss, the stale of ferment. 

Couldn't eat a morsel here. Fellow sharpening knife and fork to eat all before him, old chap picking 
his tootles. Slight spasm, full, chewing the cud. Before and after. Grace after meals. Look on this 
picture then on that. Scoffing up stewgravy with sopping sippets of bread. Lick it off the plate, man! 
Get out of this. 

He gazed round the stooled and tabled eaters, tightening the wings of his nose. 

— Two stouts here. 

— One corned and cabbage. 

That fellow ramming a knifeful of cabbage down as if his life depended on it. Good stroke. Give me 
the fidgets to look. Safer to eat from his three hands. Tear it limb from limb. Second nature to him 
Born with a silver knife in his mouth That's witty, I think. Or no. Silver means born rich. Bom with a 
knife. But then the allusion is lost. 

An illgirt server gathered sticky clattering plates. Rock, the head bailiff, standing at the bar blew the 
foamy crown from his tankard. Well up: it splashed yellow near his boot. A diner, knife and fork 
upright, elbows on table, ready for a second helping stared towards the foodlift across his stained 
square of newspaper. Other chap telling him something with his mouth full Sympathetic listener. Table 
talk. I munched hum un thu Unchster Bunk un Munchday. Ha? Did you, faith? 

Mr Bloom raised two fingers doubtfully to his lips. His eyes said: 

— Not here. Don't see him 

Out. I hate dirty eaters. 

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He backed towards the door. Get a light snack in Davy Byrne's. Stopgap. Keep me going. Had a 
good breakfast. 

— Roast and mashed here. 

— Pint of stout. 

Every fellow for his own, tooth and nai Gulp. Grub. Gulp. Gobstuff 

He came out into clearer air and turned back towards Grafton street. Eat or be eaten. Kill! Kill! 

Suppose that communal kitchen years to come perhaps. All trotting down with porringers and 
tommycans to be filled. Devour contents in the street. John Howard Parnell example the provost of 
Trinity every mother's son don't talk of your provosts and provost of Trinity women and children 
cabmen priests parsons fieldmarshals archbishops. From Ailesbury road, Clyde road, artisans' 
dwellings, north Dublin union, lord mayor in his gingerbread coach, old queen in a bathchair. My 
plate's empty. After you with our incorporated drinkingcup. Like sir Philip Crampton's fountain. Rub 
off the microbes with your handkerchief Next chap rubs on a new batch with his. Father O'Frynn 
would make hares of them all Have rows all the same. All for number one. Children fighting for the 
scrapings of the pot. Want a souppot as big as the Phoenix park. Harpooning flitches and hindquarters 
out of it. Hate people all round you. City Arms hotel table d'hote she called it. Soup, joint and sweet. 
Never know whose thoughts you're chewing. Then who'd wash up all the plates and forks? Might be 
all feeding on tabloids that time. Teeth getting worse and worse. 

After all there's a lot in that vegetarian fine flavour of things from the earth garlic of course it stinks 
after Italian organgrinders crisp of onions mushrooms truffles. Pain to the animal too. Pluck and draw 
fowl. Wretched brutes there at the cattlemarket waiting for the poleaxe to split their skulls open. Moo. 
Poor trembling calves. Meh Staggering bob. Bubble and squeak. Butchers' buckets wobbly lights. 
Give us that brisket off the hook. Ptup. Rawhead and bloody bones. Flayed glasseyed sheep hung 
from their haunches, sheepsnouts bloodypapered snivelling nosejam on sawdust. Top and lashers 
going out. Don't maul them pieces, young one. 

Hot fresh blood they prescribe for decline. Blood always needed. Insidious. Lick it up smokinghot, 
thick sugary. Famished ghosts. 

Ah, I'm hungry. 

He entered Davy Byrne's. Moral pub. He doesn't chat. Stands a drink now and then But in 
leapyear once in four. Cashed a cheque for me once. 

What will I take now? He drew his watch Let me see now. Shandygaff? 

— Hello, Bloom, Nosey Ffynn said from his nook. 

— Hello, Ffynn 

— How's things? 

— Tiptop... Let me see. I'll take a glass of burgundy and... let me see. 

Sardines on the shelves. Almost taste them by looking. Sandwich? Ham and his descendants 
musterred and bred there. Potted meats. What is home without Plumtree's potted meat? Incomplete. 
What a stupid ad! Under the obituary notices they stuck it. All up a ptumtree. Dignam's potted meat. 
Cannibals would with lemon and rice. White missionary too salty. Like pickled pork. Expect the chief 
consumes the parts of honour. Ought to be tough from exercise. His wives in a row to watch the 
effect. There was a right royal old nigger. Who ate or something the somethings of the reverend 
Mr MacTrigger, With it an abode of bliss. Lord knows what concoction Cauls mouldy tripes 

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windpipes faked and minced up. Puzzle find the meat. Kosher. No meat and milk together. Hygiene 
that was what they call now. Yom Kippur fast spring cleaning of inside. Peace and war depend on 
some fellow's digestion. Religions. Christmas turkeys and geese. Slaughter of innocents. Eat drink and 
be merry. Then casual wards full after. Heads bandaged. Cheese digests all but itself Mity cheese. 

— Have you a cheese sandwich? 

— Yes, sir. 

Like a few olives too if they had them Italian I prefer. Good glass of burgundy take away that. 
Lubricate. A nice salad, cool as a cucumber, Tom Kernan can dress. Puts gusto into it. Pure olive oil 
Milry served me that cutlet with a sprig of parsley. Take one Spanish onion God made food, the devil 
the cooks. Devilled crab. 

—Wife well? 

— Quite well, thanks... A cheese sandwich, then. Gorgonzola, have you? 

— Yes, sir. 

Nosey Frynn sipped his grog. 

— Doing any singing those times? 

Look at his mouth Could whistle in his own ear. Flap ears to match Music. Knows as much about 
it as my coachman. Still better tell him Does no harm Free ad. 

— She's engaged for a big tour end of this month. You may have heard perhaps. 

— No. O, that's the style. Who's getting it up? 

The curate served. 

— How much is that? 

— Seven d., sir... Thank you, sir. 

Mr Bloom cut his sandwich into slender strips. Mr MacTrigger, Easier than the dreamy creamy 
stuff His five hundred wives. Had the time of their lives. 

— Mustard, sir? 

— Thank you. 

He studded under each lifted strip yellow blobs. Their lives. I have it. // grew bigger and bigger 
and bigger. 

— Getting it up? he said. Well, it's like a company idea, you see. Part shares and part profits. 

— Ay, now I remember, Nosey Frynn said, putting his hand in his pocket to scratch his groin. Who 
is this was telling me? Isn't Blazes Boylan mixed up in it? 

A warm shock of air heat of mustard hanched on Mr Bloom's heart. He raised his eyes and met the 
stare of a bilious clock. Two. Pub clock five minutes fast. Time going on. Hands moving. Two. Not 
yet. 

His midriff yearned then upward, sank within him, yearned more longry, longingly. 

Wine. 

He smellsipped the cordial juice and, bidding his throat strongly to speed it, set his wineglass 

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delicately down. 

— Yes, he said. He's the organiser in point of feet 

No fear: no brains. 

Nosey Ffynn snuffled and scratched. Flea having a good square meal. 

— He had a good slice of luck, Jack Mooney was telling me, over that boxingmatch Myler Keogh 
won again that soldier in the Portobello barracks. By God, he had the little kipper down in the county 
Carlow he was telling me... 

Hope that dewdrop doesn't come down into his glass. No, snuffled it up. 

— For near a month, man, before it came off Sucking duck eggs by God till further orders. Keep 
him off the boose, see? O, by God, Blazes is a hairy chap. 

Davy Byrne came forward from the hindbar in tuckstitched shirtsleeves, cleaning his lips with two 
wipes of his napkin. Herring's blush Whose smile upon each feature plays with such and such replete. 
Too much fat on the parsnips. 

— And here's himself and pepper on him, Nosey Ffynn said. Can you give us a good one for the 
Gold cup? 

— I'm off that, Mr Ffynn, Davy Byrne answered. I never put anything on a horse. 

— You're right there, Nosey Ffynn said. 

Mr Bloom ate his strips of sandwich, fresh clean bread, with relish of disgust pungent mustard, the 
feety savour of green cheese. Sips of his wine soothed his palate. Not logwood that. Tastes fuller this 
weather with the chill off 

Nice quiet bar. Nice piece of wood in that counter. Nicely planed. Like the way it curves there. 

— I wouldn't do anything at all in that line, Davy Byrne said. It ruined many a man, the same horses. 

Vintners' sweepstake. Licensed for the sale of beer, wine and spirits for consumption on the 
premises. Heads I win tails you lose. 

— True for you, Nosey Ffynn said. Unless you're in the know. There's no straight sport going now. 
Lenehan gets some good ones. He's giving Sceptre today. Zinfandel's the favourite, lord Howard de 
Walden's, won at Epsom Momy Cannon is riding him I could have got seven to one against Saint 
Amant a fortnight before. 

— That so? Davy Byrne said... 

He went towards the window and, taking up the pettycash book, scanned its pages. 

— I could, faith, Nosey Ffynn said, snuffling. That was a rare bit of horseflesh. Saint Frusquin was 
her sire. She won in a thunderstorm, Rothschild's filly, with wadding in her ears. Blue jacket and 
yellow cap. Bad luck to big Ben Dollard and his John O'Gaunt. He put me off it. Ay. 

He drank resignedly from his tumbler, running his fingers down the flutes. 

— Ay, he said, sighing. 

Mr Bloom, champing, standing, looked upon his sigh. Nosey numbskull Will I tell him that horse 
Lenehan? He knows already. Better let him forget. Go and lose more. Fool and his money. Dewdrop 
coming down again. Cold nose he'd have kissing a woman Still they might like. Prickly beards they 
like. Dogs' cold noses. Old Mrs Riordan with the rumbling stomach's Skye terrier in the City Arms 

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hotel. Molly fondling him in her lap. O, the big doggybowwowsywowsy! 

Wine soaked and softened rolled pith of bread mustard a moment mawkish cheese. Nice wine it is. 
Taste it better because I'm not thirsty. Bath of course does that. Just a bite or two. Then about six 
o'clock I can Six. Six. Time will be gone then. She... 

Mild fire of wine kindled his veins. I wanted that badly. Felt so off colour. His eyes unhungriry saw 
shelves of tins: sardines, gaudy lobsters' claws. All the odd things people pick up for food. Out of 
shells, periwinkles with a pin, off trees, snails out of the ground the French eat, out of the sea with bait 
on a hook. Silly fish learn nothing in a thousand years. If you didn't know risky putting anything into 
your mouth. Poisonous berries. Johnny Magories. Roundness you think good. Gaudy colour warns 
you off One fellow told another and so on Try it on the dog first. Led on by the smell or the look. 
Tempting fruit. Ice cones. Cream Instinct. Orangegroves for instance. Need artificial irrigation. 
Bleibtreustrasse. Yes but what about oysters. Unsightly like a clot of phlegm Filthy shells. Devil to 
open them too. Who found them out? Garbage, sewage they feed on. Fizz and Red bank oysters. 
Effect on the sexuaL Aphrodis. He was in the Red Bank this morning. Was he oysters old fish at table 
perhaps he young flesh in bed no June has no ar no oysters. But there are people like things high. 
Tainted game. Jugged hare. First catch your hare. Chinese eating eggs fifty years old, blue and green 
again Dinner of thirty courses. Each dish harmless might mix inside. Idea for a poison mystery. That 
archduke Leopold was it no yes or was it Otto one of those Habsburgs? Or who was it used to eat 
the scruff off his own head? Cheapest lunch in town Of course aristocrats, then the others copy to be 
in the fashion Milry too rock oil and flour. Raw pastry I like myself Half the catch of oysters they 
throw back in the sea to keep up the price. Cheap no-one would buy. Caviare. Do the grand. Hock in 
green glasses. Swell blowout. Lady this. Powdered bosom pearls. The elite. Crime de la creme. 
They want special dishes to pretend they're. Hermit with a platter of pulse keep down the stings of the 
flesh. Know me come eat with me. Royal sturgeon high sheriff, Coffey, the butcher, right to venisons 
of the forest from his ex Send him back the half of a cow. Spread I saw down in the Master of the 
Rolls' kitchen area. Whitehatted chef\ks, a rabbi Combustible duck. Curly cabbage a la duchesse 
de Parme. Just as well to write it on the bill of fare so you can know what you've eaten Too many 
drugs spoil the broth I know it myself Dosing it with Edwards' desiccated soup. Geese stuffed silly 
for them Lobsters boiled alive. Do ptake some ptarmigan Wouldn't mind being a waiter in a swell 
hotel Tips, evening dress, halfiiaked ladies. May I tempt you to a little more filleted lemon sole, miss 
Dubedat? Yes, do bedad. And she did bedad. Huguenot name I expect that. A miss Dubedat lived in 
Killiney, I remember. Du, de la French Still it's the same fish perhaps old Micky Hanlon of Moore 
street ripped the guts out of making money hand over fist finger in fishes' gills can't write his name on a 
cheque think he was painting the landscape with his mouth twisted. Moooikill A Aitcha Ha ignorant as 
a kish of brogues, worth fifty thousand pounds. 

Stuck on the pane two flies buzzed, stuck. 

Glowing wine on his palate lingered swallowed. Crushing in the winepress grapes of Burgundy. 
Sun's heat it is. Seems to a secret touch telling me memory. Touched his sense moistened 
remembered. Hidden under wild ferns on Howth below us bay sleeping: sky. No sound. The sky. The 
bay purple by the Lion's head. Green by Drumleck Yellowgreen towards Sutton. Fields of undersea, 
the lines faint brown in grass, buried cities. Pillowed on my coat she had her hair, earwigs in the 
heather scrub my hand under her nape, you'll toss me alL O wonder! Coolsoft with ointments her hand 
touched me, caressed: her eyes upon me did not rum away. Ravished over her I lay, full lips full open, 
kissed her mouth Yum Softly she gave me in my mouth the seedcake warm and chewed. Mawkish 
pulp her mouth had mumbled sweetsour of her spittle. Joy: I ate it: joy. Young life, her lips that gave 
me pouting. Soft warm sticky gumjelty lips. Flowers her eyes were, take me, willing eyes. Pebbles fell. 
She lay still A goat. No-one. High on Ben Howth rhododendrons a nannygoat walking surefooted, 
dropping currants. Screened under ferns she laughed warmfolded. Wildly I lay on her, kissed her: 
eyes, her lips, her stretched neck beating, woman's breasts full in her blouse of nun's veiling, fat nipples 

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upright. Hot I tongued her. She kissed me. I was kissed. All yielding she tossed my hair. Kissed, she 
kissed me. 

Me. And me now. 

Stuck, the flies buzzed. 

His downcast eyes followed the silent veining of the oaken slab. Beauty: it curves: curves are 
beauty. Shapely goddesses, Venus, Juno: curves the world admires. Can see them library museum 
standing in the round hall, naked goddesses. Aids to digestion. They don't care what man looks. All to 
see. Never speaking. I mean to say to fellows like Ffynn. Suppose she did Pygmalion and Galatea 
what would she say first? Mortal! Put you in your proper place. Quaffing nectar at mess with gods 
golden dishes, all ambrosial. Not like a tanner lunch we have, boiled mutton, carrots and turnips, bottle 
of Allsop. Nectar imagine it drinking electricity: gods' food. Lovely forms of women sculped Junonian. 
Immortal lovely. And we stuffing food in one hole and out behind: food, chyle, blood, dung, earth, 
food: have to feed it like stoking an engine. They have no. Never looked. I'll look today. Keeper 
won't see. Bend down let something drop see if she. 

Dribbling a quiet message from his bladder came to go to do not to do there to do. A man and 
ready he drained his glass to the lees and walked, to men too they gave themselves, manly conscious, 
lay with men lovers, a youth enjoyed her, to the yard. 

When the sound of his boots had ceased Davy Byrne said from his book: 

— What is this he is? Isn't he in the insurance line? 

— He's out of that long ago, Nosey Ffynn said. He does canvassing for the Freeman. 

— I know him well to see, Davy Byrne said. Is he in trouble? 

— Trouble? Nosey Frynn said. Not that I heard of Why? 

— I noticed he was in mourning 

— Was he? Nosey Frynn said. So he was, faith. I asked him how was all at home. You're right, by 
God. So he was. 

— I never broach the subject, Davy Byrne said humanely, if I see a gentleman is in trouble that way. 
It only brings it up fresh in their minds. 

— It's not the wife anyhow, Nosey Frynn said. I met him the day before yesterday and he coming 
out of that Irish farm dairy John Wyse Nolan's wife has in Henry street with a jar of cream in his hand 
taking it home to his better half She's well nourished, I tell you. Plovers on toast. 

— And is he doing for the Freeman? Davy Byrne said. 

Nosey Ffynn pursed his lips. 

— He doesn't buy cream on the ads he picks up. You can make bacon of that. 

— How so? Davy Byrne asked, coming from his book. 

Nosey Ffynn made swift passes in the air with juggling fingers. He winked. 

— He's in the craft, he said. 

— Do you tell me so? Davy Byrne said. 

— Very much so, Nosey Ffynn said. Ancient free and accepted order. He's an excellent brother. 
Light, life and love, by God. They give him a leg up. I was told that by a — well, I won't say who. 

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—Is that a feet? 

— O, it's a fine order, Nosey Ffynn said. They stick to you when you're down. I know a fellow was 
trying to get into it. But they're as close as damn it. By God they did right to keep the women out of it. 

Davy Byrne smiledyawnednodded all in one: 

— Iiiiiichaaaaaaach! 

— There was one woman, Nosey Ffynn said, hid herself in a clock to find out what they do be 
doing. But be damned but they smelt her out and swore her in on the spot a master mason. That was 
one of the saint Legers of Doneraile. 

Davy Byrne, sated after his yawn, said with tearwashed eyes: 

— And is that a feet? Decent quiet man he is. I often saw him in here and I never once saw him — 
you know, over the line. 

— God Almighty couldn't make him drunk, Nosey Ffynn said firmly. Slips off when the fun gets too 
hot. Didn't you see him look at his watch? Ah, you weren't there. If you ask him to have a drink first 
thing he does he outs with the watch to see what he ought to imbibe. Declare to God he does. 

— There are some like that, Davy Byrne said. He's a safe man, I'd say. 

— He's not too bad, Nosey Ffynn said, snuffling it up. He's been known to put his hand down too 
to help a fellow. Give the devil his due. O, Bloom has his good points. But there's one thing he'll never 
do. 

His hand scrawled a dry pen signature beside his grog. 

— I know, Davy Byrne said. 

— Nothing in black and white, Nosey Ffynn said. 

Paddy Leonard and Bantam Lyons came in. Tom Rochford followed frowning, a plaining hand on 
his claret waistcoat. 

— Day, Mr Byrne. 

— Day, gentlemen. 

They paused at the counter. 

— Who's standing? Paddy Leonard asked. 

— I'm sitting anyhow, Nosey Ffynn answered. 

— Well, what'll it be? Paddy Leonard asked. 

— I'll take a stone ginger, Bantam Lyons said. 

— How much? Paddy Leonard cried. Since when, for God' sake? What's yours, Tom? 

— How is the main drainage? Nosey Ffynn asked, sipping. 

For answer Tom Rochford pressed his hand to his breastbone and hiccupped. 

— Would I trouble you for a glass of fresh water, Mr Byrne? he said. 

— Certainly, sir. 

Paddy Leonard eyed his alemates. 

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— Lord love a duck, he said. Look at what I'm standing drinks to! Cold water and gingerpop! Two 
fellows that would suck whisky off a sore leg. He has some bloody horse up his sleeve for the Gold 
cup. A dead snip. 

— Zinfandel is it? Nosey Ffynn asked. 

Tom Rochford spilt powder from a twisted paper into the water set before him 

— That cursed dyspepsia, he said before drinking. 

— Breadsoda is very good, Davy Byrne said. 

Tom Rochford nodded and drank. 

— Is it Zinfandel? 

— Say nothing! Bantam Lyons winked. I'm going to plunge five bob on my own. 

— Tell us if you're worth your salt and be damned to you, Paddy Leonard said. Who gave it to 
you? 

Mr Bloom on his way out raised three fingers in greeting. 

— So long! Nosey Ffynn said. 

The others turned. 

— That's the man now that gave it to me, Bantam Lyons whispered. 

— Prrwht! Paddy Leonard said with scorn. Mr Byrne, sir, we'll take two of your small Jamesons 
after that and a... 

— Stone ginger, Davy Byrne added civilly. 

— Ay, Paddy Leonard said. A suckingbottle for the baby. 

Mr Bloom walked towards Dawson street, his tongue brushing his teeth smooth. Something green it 
would have to be: spinach, say. Then with those Rontgen rays searchlight you could. 

At Duke lane a ravenous terrier choked up a sick knuckfy cud on the cobblestones and lapped it 
with new zest. Surfeit. Returned with thanks having fully digested the contents. First sweet then 
savoury. Mr Bloom coasted warily. Ruminants. His second course. Their upper jaw they move. 
Wonder if Tom Rochford will do anything with that invention of his? Wasting time explaining it to 
Ffynn's mouth. Lean people long mouths. Ought to be a hall or a place where inventors could go in 
and invent free. Course then you'd have all the cranks pestering. 

He hummed, prolonging in solemn echo the closes of the bars: 

Don Giovanni, a cenar teco M'invitasti. 

Feel better. Burgundy. Good pick me up. Who distilled first? Some chap in the blues. Dutch 
courage. That Kilkenny People in the national library now I must. 

Bare clean closestools waiting in the window of William Miller, plumber, turned back his thoughts. 
They could: and watch it all the way down, swallow a pin sometimes come out of the ribs years after, 
tour round the body changing biliary duct spleen squirting liver gastric juice coils of intestines like 
pipes. But the poor buffer would have to stand all the time with his insides entrails on show. Science. 

— A cenar teco. 

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What does that teco mean? Tonight perhaps. 

Don Giovanni, thou hast me invited 
To come to supper tonight, 
The rum the rumdum. 

Doesn't go properly. 

Keyes: two months if I get Nannetti to. That'll be two pounds ten about two pounds eight. Three 
Hynes owes me. Two eleven. Prescott's dyeworks van over there. If I get Billy Prescott's ad: two 
fifteen. Five guineas about. On the pig's back. 

Could buy one of those silk petticoats for Molly, colour of her new garters. 

Today. Today. Not think. 

Tour the south then. What about English wateringplaces? Brighton, Margate. Piers by moonlight. 
Her voice floating out. Those lovely seaside girls. Against John Long's a drowsing loafer lounged in 
heavy thought, gnawing a crusted knuckle. Handy man wants job. Small wages. Will eat anything. 

Mr Bloom turned at Gray's confectioner's window of unbought tarts and passed the reverend 
Thomas Connellan's bookstore. Why I left the church of Rome? Birds' Nest. Women run him They 
say they used to give pauper children soup to change to protestants in the time of the potato blight. 
Society over the way papa went to for the conversion of poor jews. Same bait. Why we left the 
church of Rome. 

A blind stripling stood tapping the curbstone with his slender cane. No tram in sight. Wants to 
cross. 

— Do you want to cross? Mr Bloom asked. 

The blind stripling did not answer. His wallface frowned weakly. He moved his head uncertainly. 

— You're in Dawson street, Mr Bloom said. Molesworth street is opposite. Do you want to cross? 
There's nothing in the way. 

The cane moved out trembling to the left. Mr Bloom's eye followed its line and saw again the 
dyeworks' van drawn up before Drago's. Where I saw his brillantined hair just when I was. Horse 
drooping. Driver in John Long's. Slaking his drouth. 

— There's a van there, Mr Bloom said, but it's not moving. I'll see you across. Do you want to go to 
Molesworth street? 

— Yes, the stripling answered. South Frederick street. 

— Come, Mr Bloom said. 

He touched the thin elbow gentry: then took the limp seeing hand to guide it forward. 

Say something to him Better not do the condescending. They mistrust what you tell them Pass a 
common remark. 

— The rain kept off 

No answer. 

Stains on his coat. Slobbers his food, I suppose. Tastes all different for him Have to be spoonfed 
first. Like a child's hand, his hand. Like Milfy's was. Sensitive. Sizing me up I daresay from my hand. 
Wonder if he has a name. Van Keep his cane clear of the horse's legs: tired drudge get his doze. 

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That's right. Clear. Behind a bull: in front of a horse. 

— Thanks, sir. 

Knows I'm a man Voice. 

— Right now? First turn to the left. 

The blind stripling tapped the curbstone and went on his way, drawing his cane back, feeling again. 

Mr Bloom walked behind the eyeless feet, a flatcut suit of herringbone tweed. Poor young fellow! 
How on earth did he know that van was there? Must have felt it. See things in their forehead perhaps: 
kind of sense of volume. Weight or size of it, something blacker than the dark. Wonder would he feel 
it if something was removed. Feel a gap. Queer idea of Dublin he must have, tapping his way round by 
the stones. Could he walk in a beeline if he hadn't that cane? Bloodless pious face like a fellow going 
in to be a priest. 

Penrose! That was that chap's name. 

Look at all the things they can learn to do. Read with their fingers. Tune pianos. Or we are 
surprised they have any brains. Why we think a deformed person or a hunchback clever if he says 
something we might say. Of course the other senses are more. Embroider. Plait baskets. People ought 
to help. Workbasket I could buy for Molly's birthday. Hates sewing. Might take an objection. Dark 
men they call them 

Sense of smell must be stronger too. Smells on all sides, bunched together. Each street different 
smell Each person too. Then the spring, the summer: smells. Tastes? They say you can't taste wines 
with your eyes shut or a cold in the head. Also smoke in the dark they say get no pleasure. 

And with a woman, for instance. More shameless not seeing. That girl passing the Stewart 
institution, head in the air. Look at me. I have them all on. Must be strange not to see her. Kind of a 
form in his mind's eye. The voice, temperatures: when he touches her with his fingers must almost see 
the lines, the curves. His hands on her hair, for instance. Say it was black, for instance. Good. We call 
it black. Then passing over her white skin. Different feel perhaps. Feeling of white. 

Postoffice. Must answer. Fag today. Send her a postal order two shillings, half a crown. Accept my 
little present. Stationer's just here too. Wait. Think over it. 

With a gentle finger he felt ever so slowly the hair combed back above his ears. Again. Fibres of 
fine fine straw. Then gentry his finger felt the skin of his right cheek. Downy hair there too. Not smooth 
enough. The belly is the smoothest. No-one about. There he goes into Frederick street. Perhaps to 
Levenston's dancing academy piano. Might be settling my braces. 

Walking by Doran's publichouse he slid his hand between his waistcoat and trousers and, pulling 
aside his shirt gentry, felt a slack fold of his belly. But I know it's whitey yellow. Want to try in the dark 
to see. 

He withdrew his hand and pulled his dress to. 

Poor fellow! Quite a boy. Terrible. Realty terrible. What dreams would he have, not seeing? Life a 
dream for him Where is the justice being bom that way? All those women and children excursion 
beanfeast burned and drowned in New York. Holocaust. Karma they call that transmigration for sins 
you did in a past life the reincarnation met him pike hoses. Dear, dear, dear. Pity, of course: but 
somehow you can't cotton on to them someway. 

Sir Frederick Fakiner going into the freemasons' hall Solemn as Troy. After his good lunch in 
Earlsfort terrace. Old legal cronies cracking a magnum Tales of the bench and assizes and annals of 

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the bhiecoat school. I sentenced him to ten years. I suppose he'd turnup his nose at that stuff I drank. 
Vintage wine for them, the year marked on a dusty bottle. Has his own ideas of justice in the 
recorder's court. Wellmeaning old man. Police chargesheets crammed with cases get their percentage 
manufacturing crime. Sends them to the rightabout. The devil on moneylenders. Gave Reuben J. a 
great strawcalling Now he's realty what they call a dirty jew. Power those judges have. Crusty old 
topers in wigs. Bear with a sore paw. And may the Lord have mercy on your soul. 

Hello, placard. Mirus bazaar. His Excellency the lord lieutenant. Sixteenth Today it is. In aid of 
funds for Mercer's hospital. The Messiah was first given for that. Yes. Handel What about going out 
there: Ballsbridge. Drop in on Keyes. No use sticking to him like a leech. Wear out my welcome. Sure 
to know someone on the gate. 

Mr Bloom came to Kildare street. First I must. Library. 

Straw hat in sunlight. Tan shoes. Turnedup trousers. It is. It is. 

His heart quopped softly. To the right. Museum. Goddesses. He swerved to the right. 

Is it? Almost certain. Won't look. Wine in my face. Why did I? Too heady. Yes, it is. The walk. 
Not see. Get on. 

Making for the museum gate with long windy steps he lifted his eyes. Handsome building. Sir 
Thomas Deane designed. Not following me? 

Didn't see me perhaps. Light in his eyes. 

The flutter of his breath came forth in short sighs. Quick. Cold statues: quiet there. Safe in a minute. 

No. Didn't see me. After two. Just at the gate. 

My heart! 

His eyes beating looked steadfastly at cream curves of stone. Sir Thomas Deane was the Greek 
architecture. 

Look for something I. 

His hasty hand went quick into a pocket, took out, read unfolded AgendathNetaim Where did I? 

Busy looking. 

He thrust back quick Agendath 

Afternoon she said. 

I am looking for that. Yes, that. Try all pockets. Handker. Freeman. Where did I? Ah, yes. 
Trousers. Potato. Purse. Where? 

Hurry. Walk quietly. Moment more. My heart. 

His hand looking for the where did I put found in his hip pocket soap lotion have to call tepid paper 
stuck. Ah soap there I yes. Gate. 

Safe! 

Urbane, to comfort them, the quaker librarian purred: 

— And we have, have we not, those priceless pages of Wilhelm Meister. A great poet on a great 
brother poet. A hesitating soul taking arms against a sea of troubles, torn by conflicting doubts, as one 
sees in real life. 

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He came a step a sinkapace forward on neatsleather creaking and a step backward a sinkapace on 
the solemn floor. 

A noiseless attendant setting open the door but slightly made him a noiseless beck. 

— Directly, said he, creaking to go, albeit lingering. The beautiful ineffectual dreamer who comes to 
grief against hard facts. One always feels that Goethe's judgments are so true. True in the larger 
analysis. 

Twicreakingfy analysis he corantoed off Bald, most zealous by the door he gave his large ear all to 
the attendant's words: heard them and was gone. 

Two left. 

— Monsieur de la Palice, Stephen sneered, was alive fifteen minutes before his death 

— Have you found those six brave medicals, John Eglinton asked with elder's gall, to write 
Paradise Lost at your dictation? The Sorrows of Satan he calls it. 

Smile. Smile Cranry's smile. 

First he tickled her 

Then he patted her 

Then he passed the female catheter. 

For he was a medical 

Jolly old medi... 

— I feel you would need one more for Hamlet. Seven is dear to the mystic mind. The shining seven 
W.B. calls them 

Glittereyed his rufous skull close to his greencapped desklamp sought the face bearded amid 
darkgreener shadow, an ollav, hofyeyed. He laughed low: a sizar's laugh of Trinity: unanswered. 

Orchestral Satan, weeping many a rood 

Tears such as angels weep. 

Ed egli avea del culfatto trombetta. 

He holds my follies hostage. 

Cranry's eleven true Wicklowmen to free their sireland. Gaptoothed Kathleen, her four beautiful 
green fields, the stranger in her house. And one more to hail him: ave, rabbi: the Tinahery twelve. In 
the shadow of the glen he cooees for them My soul's youth I gave him, night by night. God speed. 
Good hunting. 

Mulligan has my telegram 

Folly. Persist. 

— Our young Irish bards, John Eglinton censured, have yet to create a figure which the world will 
set beside Saxon Shakespeare's Hamlet though I admire him, as old Ben did, on this side idolatry. 

— All these questions are purely academic, Russell oracled out of his shadow. I mean, whether 
Hamlet is Shakespeare or James I or Essex. Clergymen's discussions of the historicity of Jesus. Art 
has to reveal to us ideas, formless spiritual essences. The supreme question about a work of art is out 
of how deep a life does it spring. The painting of Gustave Moreau is the painting of ideas. The deepest 
poetry of Shelley, the words of Hamlet bring our minds into contact with the eternal wisdom, Plato's 
world of ideas. All the rest is the speculation of schoolboys for schoolboys. 

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A. E. has been telling some yankee interviewer. Wall, tarnation strike me! 

— The schoolmen were schoolboys first, Stephen said superpolitefy. Aristotle was once Plato's 
schoolboy. 

— And has remained so, one should hope, John Eglinton sedately said. One can see him, a model 
schoolboy with his diploma under his arm 

He laughed again at the now smiling bearded face. 

Formless spiritual. Father, Word and Holy Breath. Allfather, the heavenly man. Hiesos Kristos, 
magician of the beautiful, the Logos who suffers in us at every moment. This verify is that. I am the fire 
upon the altar. I am the sacrificial butter. 

Dunlop, Judge, the noblest Roman of them all, A.E., Arval, the Name Ineffable, in heaven hight: 
K.H., their master, whose identity is no secret to adepts. Brothers of the great white lodge always 
watching to see if they can help. The Christ with the bridesister, moisture of light, born of an ensouled 
virgin, repentant sophia, departed to the plane of buddhi The life esoteric is not for ordinary person. 
O.P. must work off bad karma first. Mrs Cooper Oakley once glimpsed our very illustrious sister 
HP.B.'s elemental. 

O, fie! Out on't! Pfuiteufel! You naughtn't to look, missus, so you naughtn't when a lady's 
ashowing of her elemental. 

Mr Best entered, tall, young, mild, light. He bore in his hand with grace a notebook, new, large, 
clean, bright. 

— That model schoolboy, Stephen said, would find Hamlet's musings about the afterlife of his 
princely soul, the improbable, insignificant and undramatic monologue, as shallow as Plato's. 

John Eglinton, frowning, said, waxing wroth: 

— Upon my word it makes my blood boil to hear anyone compare Aristotle with Plato. 

— Which of the two, Stephen asked, would have banished me from his commonwealth? 

Unsheathe your dagger definitions. Horseness is the whatness of allhorse. Streams of tendency and 
eons they worship. God: noise in the street: very peripatetic. Space: what you damn well have to see. 
Through spaces smaller than red globules of man's blood they creepycrawl after Blake's buttocks into 
eternity of which this vegetable world is but a shadow. Hold to the now, the here, through which all 
future plunges to the past. 

Mr Best came forward, amiable, towards his colleague. 

— Haines is gone, he said. 

—Is he? 

— I was showing him Jubainville's book. He's quite enthusiastic, don't you know, about Hyde's 
Lovesongs ofConnacht. I couldn't bring him in to hear the discussion. He's gone to Gill's to buy it. 

Bound thee forth, my booklet, quick 
To greet the callous public. 
Writ, I ween, 'twas not my wish 
In lean unlovely English. 

— The peatsmoke is going to his head, John Eglinton opined. 

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We feel in England. Penitent thief Gone. I smoked his baccy. Green twinkling stone. An emerald 
set in the ring of the sea. 

— People do not know how dangerous lovesongs can be, the auric egg of Russell warned occultly. 
The movements which work revolutions in the world are born out of the dreams and visions in a 
peasant's heart on the hillside. For them the earth is not an exploitable ground but the living mother. 
The rarefied air of the academy and the arena produce the sixshilling novel, the musichall song. France 
produces the finest flower of corruption in Malkrme but the desirable life is revealed only to the poor 
of heart, the life of Homer's Phaeacians. 

From these words Mr Best turned an unoffending face to Stephen. 

— Mallarme, don't you know, he said, has written those wonderful prose poems Stephen 
MacKenna used to read to me in Paris. The one about Hamlet. He says: il se promene, lisant au 
livre de lui-meme, don't you know, reading the book of himself. He describes Hamlet given in a 
French town, don't you know, a provincial town They advertised it. 

His free hand graciously wrote tiny signs in air. 

HAMLET 

on 

LE DISTRAIT 

Piece de Shakespeare 

He repeated to John Eglinton's newgathered frown: 

— Piece de Shakespeare, don't you know. It's so French. The French point of view. Hamlet ou... 

— The absentminded beggar, Stephen ended. 

John Eglinton laughed. 

— Yes, I suppose it would be, he said. Excellent people, no doubt, but distressingly shortsighted in 
some matters. 

Sumptuous and stagnant exaggeration of murder. 

— A deathsman of the soul Robert Greene called him, Stephen said. Not for nothing was he a 
butcher's son, wielding the sledded poleaxe and spitting in his palms. Nine lives are taken off for his 
father's one. Our Father who art in purgatory. Khaki Hamlets don't hesitate to shoot. The 
bloodboltered shambles in act five is a forecast of the concentration camp sung by Mr Swinburne. 

Craifly, I his mute orderly, following battles from afar. 

Whelps and dams of murderous foes whom none But we had spared... 

Between the Saxon smile and yankee yawp. The devil and the deep sea. 

— He will have it that Hamlet is a ghoststory, John Eglinton said for Mr Best's behoof Like the fat 
boy in Pickwick he wants to make our flesh creep. 

List! List! O List! 

My flesh hears him creeping, hears. 

If thou didst ever... 

— What is a ghost? Stephen said with tingling energy. One who has faded into impalpability through 
death, through absence, through change of manners. Elizabethan London lay as far from Stratford as 

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corrupt Paris lies from virgin Dublin. Who is the ghost from limbo patrum, returning to the world that 
has forgotten him? Who is King Hamlet? 

John Eglinton shifted his spare body, leaning back to judge. 

Lifted. 

— It is this hour of a day in mid June, Stephen said, begging with a swift glance their hearing. The 
flag is up on the playhouse by the bankside. The bear Sackerson growls in the pit near it, Paris garden. 
Canvasclimbers who sailed with Drake chew their sausages among the groundlings. 

Local colour. Work in all you know. Make them accomplices. 

— Shakespeare has left the huguenot's house in Silver street and walks by the swanmews along the 
riverbank. But he does not stay to feed the pen chivying her game of cygnets towards the rushes. The 
swan of Avon has other thoughts. 

Composition of place. Ignatius Loyola, make haste to help me! 

— The play begins. A player comes on under the shadow, made up in the castoff mail of a court 
buck, a wellset man with a bass voice. It is the ghost, the king, a king and no king, and the player is 
Shakespeare who has studied Hamlet all the years of his life which were not vanity in order to play 
the part of the spectre. He speaks the words to Burbage, the young player who stands before him 
beyond the rack of cerecloth calling him by a name: 

Hamlet, I am thy father's spirit, 

bidding him list. To a son he speaks, the son of his soul, the prince, young Hamlet and to the son of 
his body, Hamnet Shakespeare, who has died in Stratford that his namesake may live for ever. 

Is it possible that that player Shakespeare, a ghost by absence, and in the vesture of buried 
Denmark, a ghost by death, speaking his own words to his own son's name (had Hamnet 
Shakespeare lived he would have been prince Hamlet's twin), is it possible, I want to know, or 
probable that he did not draw or foresee the logical conclusion of those premises: you are the 
dispossessed son: I am the murdered father: your mother is the guilty queen, Ann Shakespeare, born 
Hathaway? 

— But this prying into the family life of a great man, Russell began impatiently. 

Art thou there, truepenny? 

— Interesting only to the parish clerk. I mean, we have the plays. I mean when we read the poetry 
of King Lear what is it to us how the poet lived? As for living our servants can do that for us, Villiers 
de l'lsle has said. Peeping and prying into greenroom gossip of the day, the poet's drinking, the poet's 
debts. We have King Lear, and it is immortaL 

Mr Best's face, appealed to, agreed. 

Flow over them with your waves and with your waters, Mananaan, Mananaan MacLir... 

How now, sirrah, that pound he lent you when you were hungry? 

Marry, I wanted it. 

Take thou this noble. 

Go to! You spent most of it in Georgina Johnson's bed, clergyman's daughter. Agenbite of inwit. 

Do you intend to pay it back? 

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0, yes. 
When? Now? 
Well.. No. 
When, then? 

I paid my way. I paid my way. 

Steady on He's frombeyant Boyne water. The northeast comer. You owe it. 

Wait. Five months. Molecules all change. I am other I now. Other I got pound. 

Buzz. Buzz. 

But I, entelechy, form of forms, am I by memory because under everchanging forms. 

I that sinned and prayed and fasted. 

A child Conmee saved frompandies. 

1, I and 1. 1. 

A.E.I.O.U. 

— Do you mean to try in the face of the tradition of three centuries? John Eglinton's carping voice 
asked. Her ghost at least has been laid for ever. She died, for literature at least, before she was born. 

— She died, Stephen retorted, sixtyseven years after she was born. She saw him into and out of the 
world. She took his first embraces. She bore his children and she laid pennies on his eyes to keep his 
eyelids closed when he lay on his deathbed. 

Mother's deathbed. Candle. The sheeted mirror. Who brought me into this world lies there, 
bronzelidded, under few cheap flowers. Liliata rutilantium. 

I wept alone. 

John Eglinton looked in the tangled glowworm of his lamp. 

— The world believes that Shakespeare made a mistake, he said, and got out of it as quickly and as 
best he could. 

— Bosh! Stephen said rudely. A man of genius makes no mistakes. His errors are volitional and are 
the portals of discovery. 

Portals of discovery opened to let in the quaker librarian, softcreakfooted, bald, eared and 
assiduous. 

— A shrew, John Eglinton said shrewdly, is not a useful portal of discovery, one should imagine. 
What useful discovery did Socrates learn from Xanthippe? 

— Dialectic, Stephen answered: and from his mother how to bring thoughts into the world. What he 
learnt from his other wife Myrto (absit nomenf), Socratididion's Epipsychidion, no man, not a woman, 
will ever know. But neither the midwife's lore nor the caudlelectures saved him from the archons of 
Sinn Fein and their naggin of hemlock. 

— But Ann Hathaway? Mr Best's quiet voice said forgetfully. Yes, we seem to be forgetting her as 
Shakespeare himself forgot her. 

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His look went from brooder's beard to carper's skull, to remind, to chide them not unkindly, then to 
the baldpink lollard costard, guiltless though maligned. 

— He had a good groatsworth of wit, Stephen said, and no truant memory. He carried a memory in 
his wallet as he trudged to Romeville whistling The girl I left behind me. If the earthquake did not 
time it we should know where to place poor Wat, sitting in his form, the cry of hounds, the studded 
bridle and her blue windows. That memory, Venus and Adonis, lay in the bedchamber of every light- 
of-love in London. Is Katharine the shrew illfavoured? Hortensio calls her young and beautifuL Do you 
think the writer of Antony and Cleopatra, a passionate pilgrim, had his eyes in the back of his head 
that he chose the ugliest doxy in all Warwickshire to lie withal? Good: he left her and gained the world 
of men. But his boywomen are the women of a boy. Their life, thought, speech are lent them by males. 
He chose badly? He was chosen, it seems to me. If others have their will Ann hath a way. By cock, 
she was to blame. She put the comether on him, sweet and twentysix. The greyeyed goddess who 
bends over the boy Adonis, stooping to conquer, as prologue to the swelling act, is a boldfaced 
Stratford wench who tumbles in a cornfield a lover younger than herself 

And my turn? When? 

Come! 

— Ryefield, Mr Best said brightly, gladly, raising his new book, gladly, brightly. 

He murmured then with blond delight for all: 

Between the acres of the rye These pretty countryfolk would lie. 

Paris: the wellp leased pleaser. 

A tall figure in bearded homespun rose from shadow and unveiled its cooperative watch 

— I am afraid I am due at the Homestead. 

Whither away? Exploitable ground. 

— Are you going? John Eglinton's active eyebrows asked. Shall we see you at Moore's tonight? 
Piper is coming. 

— Piper! Mr Best piped. Is Piper back? 

Peter Piper pecked a peck of pick of peck of pickled pepper. 

— I don't know if I can. Thursday. We have our meeting. If I can get away in time. 

Yogibogeybox in Dawson chambers, his Unveiled. Their Pali book we tried to pawn. 
Crosslegged under an umbrel umbershoot he thrones an Aztec logos, functioning on astral levels, their 
oversoul, mahamahatma. The faithful hermetists await the light, ripe for chelaship, ringroundabout him 
Louis H. Victory. T. Caulfield Irwin. Lotus ladies tend themi'the eyes, their pineal glands aglow. Filled 
with his god, he thrones, Buddh under plantain. Gulfer of souls, engulfer. Hesouls, shesouls, shoals of 
souls. Engulfed with wailing creecries, whirled, whirling, they bewail 

In quintessential triviality 

For years in this fleshcase a shesoul dwelt. 

— They say we are to have a literary surprise, the quaker librarian said, friendly and earnest. Mr 
Russell, rumour has it, is gathering together a sheaf of our younger poets' verses. We are all looking 
forward anxiously. 

Anxiously he glanced in the cone of lamp light where three faces, lighted, shone. 

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See this. Remember. 

Stephen looked down on a wide headless caubeen, hung on his ashplanthandle over his knee. My 
casque and sword. Touch lightly with two index fingers. Aristotle's experiment. One or two? 
Necessity is that in virtue of which it is impossible that one can be otherwise. Argal, one hat is one hat. 

Listen 

Young Cohimand Starkey. George Roberts is doing the commercial part. Longworth will give it a 
good puffin the Express. O, will he? I liked Cohim's Drover. Yes, I think he has that queer thing 
genius. Do you think he has genius realty? Yeats admired his line: As in wild earth a Grecian vase. 
Did he? I hope you'll be able to come tonight. Malachi Mulligan is coming too. Moore asked him to 
bring Haines. Did you hear Miss Mitchell's joke about Moore and Martyn? That Moore is Martyn's 
wild oats? Awfully clever, isn't it? They remind one of Don Quixote and Sancho Panza. Our national 
epic has yet to be written, Dr Sigerson says. Moore is the man for it. A knight of the rueful 
countenance here in Dublin. With a saffron kilt? O'Neill Russell? O, yes, he must speak the grand old 
tongue. And his Dulcinea? James Stephens is doing some clever sketches. We are becoming 
important, it seems. 

Cordelia. Cordoglio. Lir's loneliest daughter. 

Nookshotten Now your best French polish. 

— Thank you very much, Mr Russell, Stephen said, rising. If you will be so kind as to give the letter 
to Mr Norman... 

— O, yes. If he considers it important it will go in. We have so much correspondence. 

— I understand, Stephen said. Thanks. 

God ild you. The pigs' paper. Bullockbefriending. 

Synge has promised me an article for Dana too. Are we going to be read? I feel we are. The 
Gaelic league wants something in Irish. I hope you will come round tonight. Bring Starkey. 

Stephen sat down 

The quaker librarian came from the leavetakers. Blushing, his mask said: 

— Mr Dedahis, your views are most illuminating. 

He creaked to and fro, tiptoing up nearer heaven by the altitude of a chopine, and, covered by the 
noise of outgoing, said low: 

— Is it your view, then, that she was not faithful to the poet? 

Alarmed face asks me. Why did he come? Courtesy or an inward light? 

— Where there is a reconciliation, Stephen said, there must have been first a sundering. 

—Yes. 

Christfox in leather trews, hiding, a runaway in blighted treeforks, from hue and cry. Knowing no 
vixen, walking lonely in the chase. Women he won to him, tender people, a whore of Babylon, ladies 
of justices, bully tapsters' wives. Fox and geese. And in New Place a slack dishonoured body that 
once was comely, once as sweet, as fresh as cinnamon, now her leaves falling, all, bare, frighted of the 
narrow grave and unforgiven 

— Yes. So you think... 

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The door closed behind the outgoer. 

Rest suddenly possessed the discreet vaulted cell, rest of warm and brooding air. 

A vestal's lamp. 

Here he ponders things that were not: what Caesar would have lived to do had he believed the 
soothsayer: what might have been: possibilities of the possible as possible: things not known: what 
name Achilles bore when he lived among women. 

Coffined thoughts around me, in mummycases, embalmed in spice of words. Thoth, god of libraries, 
a birdgod, moonycrowned. And I heard the voice of that Egyptian highpriest. In painted chambers 
loaded with tilebooks. 

They are still. Once quick in the brains of men. Still: but an itch of death is in them, to tell me in my 
ear a maudlin tale, urge me to wreak their will 

— Certainly, John Eglinton mused, of all great men he is the most enigmatic. We know nothing but 
that he lived and suffered. Not even so much. Others abide our question. A shadow hangs over all the 
rest. 

— But Ham let is so personal, isn't it? Mr Best pleaded. I mean, a kind of private paper, don't you 
know, of his private life. I mean, I don't care a button, don't you know, who is killed or who is guilty... 

He rested an innocent book on the edge of the desk, smiling his defiance. His private papers in the 
original. Ta an bad ar an tir. Taim in mo shagart. Put beurla on it, littlejohn. 

Quoth littlejohn Eglinton: 

— I was prepared for paradoxes from what Malachi Mulgan told us but I may as well warn you 
that if you want to shake my belief that Shakespeare is Hamlet you have a stern task before you. 

Bear with me. 

Stephen withstood the bane of miscreant eyes glinting stern under wrinkled brows. A basilisk. E 
quando vede I'uomo I'attosca. Messer Brunetto, I thank thee for the word. 

— As we, or mother Dana, weave and unweave our bodies, Stephen said, from day to day, their 
molecules shuttled to and fro, so does the artist weave and unweave his image. And as the mole on my 
right breast is where it was when I was born, though all my body has been woven of new stuff time 
after time, so through the ghost of the unquiet father the image of the unliving son looks forth In the 
intense instant of imagination, when the mind, Shelley says, is a fading coal, that which I was is that 
which I am and that which in possibility I may come to be. So in the future, the sister of the past, I may 
see myself as I sit here now but by reflection from that which then I shall be. 

Drummond of Hawthornden helped you at that stile. 

— Yes, Mr Best said youngfy. I feel Hamlet quite young. The bitterness might be from the father but 
the passages with Ophelia are surely from the son. 

Has the wrong sow by the lug He is in my father. I am in his son 

— That mole is the last to go, Stephen said, laughing. 

John Eglinton made a nothing pleasing mow. 

— If that were the birthmark of genius, he said, genius would be a drug in the market. The plays of 
Shakespeare's later years which Renan admired so much breathe another spirit. 

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— The spirit of reconciliation, the quaker librarian breathed. 

— There can be no reconciliation, Stephen said, if there has not been a sundering. 

Said that. 

— If you want to know what are the events which cast their shadow over the hell of time of King 
Lear, Othello, Hamlet, Troilus and Cressida, look to see when and how the shadow lifts. What 
softens the heart of a man, shipwrecked in storms dire, Tried, like another Ulysses, Pericles, prince of 
Tyre? 

Head, redconecapped, buffeted, brineblinded. 

— A child, a girl, placed in his arms, Marina. 

— The leaning of sophists towards the bypaths of apocrypha is a constant quantity, John Eglinton 
detected. The highroads are dreary but they lead to the town. 

Good Bacon: gone musty. Shakespeare Bacon's wild oats. Cypherjugglers going the highroads. 
Seekers on the great quest. What town, good masters? Mummed in names: A. E., eon: Magee, John 
Eglinton. East of the sun, west of the moon: Tir na n-og. Booted the twain and staved. 

How many miles to Dublin? Three score and ten, sir. Will we be there by candlelight? 

— Mr Brandes accepts it, Stephen said, as the first play of the closing period. 

— Does he? What does Mr Sidney Lee, or Mr Simon Lazarus as some aver his name is, say of it? 

— Marina, Stephen said, a child of storm, Miranda, a wonder, Perdita, that which was lost. What 
was lost is given back to him his daughter's child. My dearest wife, Pericles says, was like this maid. 
Will any man love the daughter if he has not loved the mother? 

— The art of being a grandfather, Mr Best gan murmur. I'art d'etre grand... 

— Will he not see reborn in her, with the memory of his own youth added, another image? 

Do you know what you are talking about? Love, yes. Word known to all men Amor vero aliquid 
alicuibonumvultunde et ea quae concupiscimus ... 

— His own image to a man with that queer thing genius is the standard of all experience, material 
and moral. Such an appeal will touch him The images of other males of his blood will repel him. He 
will see in them grotesque attempts of nature to foretell or to repeat himself 

The benign forehead of the quaker librarian enkindled rosily with hope. 

— I hope Mr Dedakis will work out his theory for the enlightenment of the public. And we ought to 
mention another Irish commentator, Mr George Bernard Shaw. Nor should we forget Mr Frank 
Harris. His articles on Shakespeare in the Saturday Review were surely brilliant. Oddly enough he 
too draws for us an unhappy relation with the dark lady of the sonnets. The favoured rival is William 
Herbert, earl of Pembroke. I own that if the poet must be rejected such a rejection would seem more 
in harmony witli — what shall I say? — our notions of what ought not to have been. 

Felicitously he ceased and held a meek head among them, auk's egg, prize of their fray. 

He thous and thees her with grave husbandwords. Dost love, Miriam? Dost love thy man? 

— That may be too, Stephen said. There's a saying of Goethe's which Mr Magee likes to quote. 
Beware of what you wish for in youth because you will get it in middle life. Why does he send to one 
who is a buonaroba, a bay where all men ride, a maid of honour with a scandalous girlhood, a 

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lordlingto woo for him? He was himself a lord of language and had made himself a coistrel gentleman 
and he had written Romeo and Juliet, Why? Belief in himself has been untimely killed. He was 
overborne in a cornfield first (ryefield, I should say) and he will never be a victor in his own eyes after 
nor play victoriously the game of laugh and lie down. Assumed dongiovannism will not save him No 
later undoing will undo the first undoing. The tusk of the boar has wounded him there where love lies 
ableeding If the shrew is worsted yet there remains to her woman's invisible weapon. There is, I feel 
in the words, some goad of the flesh driving him into a new passion, a darker shadow of the first, 
darkening even his own understanding of himself A like fate awaits him and the two rages commingle 
in a whirlpool. 

They list. And in the porches of their ears I pour. 

— The soul has been before stricken mortally, a poison poured in the porch of a sleeping ear. But 
those who are done to death in sleep cannot know the manner of their quell unless their Creator 
endow their souls with that knowledge in the life to come. The poisoning and the beast with two backs 
that urged it King Hamlet's ghost could not know of were he not endowed with knowledge by his 
creator. That is why the speech (his lean unlovely English) is always turned elsewhere, backward. 
Ravisher and ravished, what he would but would not, go with him from Lucrece's bhiecircled ivory 
globes to Imogen's breast, bare, with its mole cinquespotted. He goes back, weary of the creation he 
has piled up to hide him from himself, an old dog licking an old sore. But, because loss is his gain, he 
passes on towards eternity in undiminished personality, untaught by the wisdom he has written or by 
the laws he has revealed. His beaver is up. He is a ghost, a shadow now, the wind by Elsinore's rocks 
or what you will, the sea's voice, a voice heard only in the heart of him who is the substance of his 
shadow, the son consubstantial with the father. 

— Amen! was responded from the doorway. 

Hast thou found me, O mine enemy? 

Entr'acte. 

A ribald face, sullen as a dean's, Buck Mulligan came forward, then blithe in motley, towards the 
greeting of their smiles. My telegram 

— You were speaking of the gaseous vertebrate, if I mistake not? he asked of Stephen. 

Primrosevested he greeted gaily with his doffed Panama as with a bauble. 

They make him welcome. Was Du verlachst wirst Du noch dienen. 

Brood of mockers: Photius, pseudomalachi, Johann Most. 

He Who Himself begot middler the Holy Ghost and Himself sent Himself, Agenbuyer, between 
Himself and others, Who, put upon by His fiends, stripped and whipped, was nailed like bat to 
barndoor, starved on crosstree, Who let Him bury, stood up, harrowed hell, fared into heaven and 
there these nineteen hundred years sitteth on the right hand of His Own Self but yet shall come in the 
latter day to doom the quick and dead when all the quick shall be dead already. 

Glo — o — ri — a in ex — eel — sis De — o. 

He lifts his hands. Veils fall O, flowers! Bells with bells with bells aquiring 

— Yes, indeed, the quaker librarian said. A most instructive discussion. Mr Mulligan, I'll be bound, 
has his theory too of the play and of Shakespeare. All sides of life should be represented. 

He smiled on all sides equally. 

Buck Mulligan thought, puzzled: 

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— Shakespeare? he said. I seem to know the name. 

A flying sunny smile rayed in his loose features. 

— To be sure, he said, remembering brightly. The chap that writes like Synge. 

Mr Best turned to him 

— Haines missed you, he said. Did you meet him? He'll see you after at the D. B. C. He's gone to 
Gill's to buy Hyde's Lovesongs ofConnacht. 

— I came through the museum, Buck Mulligan said. Was he here? 

— The bard's fellowcountrymen, John Eglinton answered, are rather tired perhaps of our brilliancies 
of theorising. I hear that an actress played Hamlet for the fourhundredandeighth time last night in 
Dublin. Vining held that the prince was a woman. Has no- one made him out to be an Irishman? Judge 
Barton, I believe, is searching for some clues. He swears (His Highness not His Lordship) by saint 
Patrick. 

— The most brilliant of all is that story of Wilde's, Mr Best said, lifting his brilliant notebook. That 
Portrait of Mr W. H. where he proves that the sonnets were written by a Willie Hughes, a man all 
hues. 

— For Willie Hughes, is it not? the quaker librarian asked. 

Or Hughie Wills? Mr William Himself W. H: who am I? 

— I mean, for Willie Hughes, Mr Best said, amending his gloss easily. Of course it's all paradox, 
don't you know, Hughes and hews and hues, the colour, but it's so typical the way he works it out. It's 
the very essence of Wilde, don't you know. The light touch. 

His glance touched their faces lightly as he smiled, a blond ephebe. Tame essence of Wilde. 

You're darned witty. Three drams of usquebaugh you drank with Dan Deasys ducats. 

How much did I spend? O, a few shillings. 

For a plump of pressmen. Humour wet and dry. 

Wit. You would give your five wits for youth's proud livery he pranks in. Lineaments of gratified 
desire. 

There be many mo. Take her for me. In pairing time. Jove, a cool ruttime send them Yea, 
turtledove her. 

Eve. Naked wheatbellied sin. A snake coils her, fang in's kiss. 

— Do you think it is only a paradox? the quaker librarian was asking. The mocker is never taken 
seriously when he is most serious. 

They talked seriously of mocker's seriousness. 

Buck Mulligan's again heavy face eyed Stephen awhile. Then, his head wagging, he came near, 
drew a folded telegram from his pocket. His mobile lips read, smiling with new delight. 

— Telegram! he said. Wonderful inspiration! Telegram! A papal bull! 

He sat on a corner of the unlit desk, reading aloud joyfully: 

— The sentimentalist is he who would enjoy without incurring the immense debtorship for a 

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thing done. Signed: Dedahis. Where did you launch it from? The kips? No. College Green. Have you 
drunk the four quid? The aunt is going to call on your unsubstantial father. Telegram! Makchi 
Mulligan, The Ship, lower Abbey street. O, you peerless mummer! O, you priestified Kinchite! 

Joyfully he thrust message and envelope into a pocket but keened in a querulous brogue: 

— It's what I'm telling you, mister honey, it's queer and sick we were, Haines and myself, the time 
himself brought it in. 'Twas murmur we did for a gallus potion would rouse a friar, I'm thinking, and he 
limp with leching And we one hour and two hours and three hours in Connerys sitting civil waiting for 
pints apiece. 

He wailed: 

— And we to be there, mavrone, and you to be unbeknownst sending us your conglomerations the 
way we to have our tongues out a yard long like the drouthy clerics do be fainting for a pussfuL 

Stephen laughed. 

Quickly, warningfulry Buck Mulgan bent down. 

— The tamper Synge is looking for you, he said, to murder you He heard you pissed on his 
halldoor in Glasthule. He's out in pampooties to murder you 

— Me! Stephen exclaimed. That was your contribution to literature. 

Buck Mulligan gleefully bent back, laughing to the dark eavesdropping ceiling. 

— Murder you! he laughed. 

Harsh gargoyle face that warred against me over our mess of hash of lights in rue Saint- Andre-des- 
Arts. In words of words for words, pakbras. Oisinwith Patrick. Faunman he met in Ckmart woods, 
brandishing a winebottle. C'est vendredi saint! Murthering Irish. His image, wandering, he met. I 
mine. I met a fool i'the forest. 

— Mr Lyster, an attendant said from the door ajar. 

— ... in which everyone can find his own So Mr Justice Madden in his Diary of Master William 
Silence has found the hunting terms... Yes? What is it? 

— There's a gentleman here, sir, the attendant said, coming forward and offering a card. From the 
Freeman. He wants to see the files of the Kilkenny People for kst year. 

— Certainly, certainly, certainly. Is the gentleman?... 

He took the eager card, gknced, not saw, kid down ungknced, looked, asked, creaked, asked: 

—Is he?... O, there! 

Brisk in a gallkrd he was off, out. In the daylit corridor he talked with voluble pains of zeal, in duty 
bound, most fair, most kind, most honest broadbrim 

— This gentleman? Freeman's Journal? Kilkenny People? To be sure. Good day, sir. Kilkenny... 
We have certainly... 

A patient silhouette waited, listening. 

— All the leading provinckL . . Northern Whig, Cork Examiner, Enniscorthy Guardian, 1903... 
Will you please?... Evans, conduct this gentleman... If you just follow the atten... Or, please allow 
me... This way... Please, sir... 

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Voluble, dutiful, he led the way to all the provincial papers, a bowing dark figure following his hasty 
heels. 

The door closed. 

— The sheeny! Buck Mulligan cried. 

He jumped up and snatched the card. 

— What's his name? Ikey Moses? Bloom 

He rattled on: 

— Jehovah collector of prepuces, is no more. I found him over in the museum where I went to hail 
the foamborn Aphrodite. The Greek mouth that has never been twisted in prayer. Every day we must 
do homage to her. Life of life, thy lips enkindle. 

Suddenly he turned to Stephen: 

— He knows you. He knows your old fellow. O, I fear me, he is Greeker than the Greeks. His pale 
Galilean eyes were upon her mesial groove. Venus Kallipyge. O, the thunder of those loins! The god 
pursuing the maiden hid. 

— We want to hear more, John Eglinton decided with Mr Best's approval. We begin to be 
interested in Mrs S. Till now we had thought of her, if at all, as a patient Griselda, a Penelope 
stayathome. 

— Antisthenes, pupil of Gorgias, Stephen said, took the palm of beauty from Kyrios Menelaus' 
brooddam, Argive Helen, the wooden mare of Troy in whom a score of heroes slept, and handed it to 
poor Penelope. Twenty years he lived in London and, during part of that time, he drew a salary equal 
to that of the lord chancellor of Ireland. His life was rich. His art, more than the art of feudalism as 
Walt Whitman called it, is the art of surfeit. Hot herringpies, green mugs of sack, honeysauces, sugar 
of roses, marchpane, gooseberried pigeons, ringocandies. Sir Walter Raleigh, when they arrested him, 
had half a million francs on his back including a pair of fancy stays. The gombeenwoman Eliza Tudor 
had underlinen enough to vie with her of Sheba. Twenty years he daled there between conjugial love 
and its chaste delights and scortatory love and its foul pleasures. You know Manningham's story of the 
burgher's wife who bade Dick Burbage to her bed after she had seen him in Richard III and how 
Shakespeare, overhearing, without more ado about nothing, took the cow by the horns and, when 
Burbage came knocking at the gate, answered from the capon's blankets: William the conqueror 
came before Richard III. And the gay kkin, mistress Fitton, mount and cry O, and his dainty 
birdsnies, lady Penelope Rich, a clean quality woman is suited for a player, and the punks of the 
bankside, a penny a time. 

Cours la Reine. Encore vingt sous. Nous ferons depetites cochonneries. Minette? Tu veux? 

— The height of fine society. And sir William Davenant of oxford's mother with her cup of canary 
for any cockcanary. 

Buck Mulligan, his pious eyes upturned, prayed: 

— Blessed Margaret Mary Anycock! 

— And Harry of six wives' daughter. And other lady friends from neighbour seats as Lawn 
Tennyson, gentleman poet, sings. But all those twenty years what do you suppose poor Penelope in 
Stratford was doing behind the diamond panes? 

Do and do. Thing done. In a rosery of Fetter lane of Gerard, herbalist, he walks, greyedauburn An 
azured harebell like her veins. Lids of Juno's eyes, violets. He walks. One life is all One body. Do. 

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But do. Afar, in a reek of host and squalor, hands are laid on whiteness. 

Buck Mulligan rapped John Eglintorfs desk sharply. 

— Whom do you suspect? he challenged. 

— Say that he is the spurned lover in the sonnets. Once spurned twice spurned. But the court 
wanton spurned him for a lord, his dearmylove. 

Love that dare not speak its name. 

— As an Englishman, you mean, John sturdy Eglinton put in, he loved a lord. 

Old wall where sudden lizards flash. At Charenton I watched them 

— It seems so, Stephen said, when he wants to do for him, and for all other and singular uneared 
wombs, the holy office an ostler does for the stallion Maybe, like Socrates, he had a midwife to 
mother as he had a shrew to wife. But she, the giglot wanton, did not break a bedvow. Two deeds are 
rank in that ghost's mind: a broken vow and the dullbrained yokel on whom her favour has declined, 
deceased husband's brother. Sweet Ann, I take it, was hot in the blood. Once a wooer, twice a 
wooer. 

Stephen turned boldly in his chair. 

— The burden of proof is with you not with me, he said frowning. If you deny that in the fifth scene 
of Hamlet he has branded her with infamy tell me why there is no mention of her during the thirtyfour 
years between the day she married him and the day she buried him All those women saw their men 
down and under: Mary, her goodman John, Ann, her poor dear Willun, when he went and died on 
her, raging that he was the first to go, Joan, her four brothers, Judith, her husband and all her sons, 
Susan, her husband too, while Susan's daughter, Elizabeth, to use granddaddys words, wed her 
second, having killed her first. 

O, yes, mention there is. In the years when he was living richly in royal London to pay a debt she 
had to borrow forty shillings from her father's shepherd. Explain you then. Explain the swansong too 
wherein he has commended her to posterity. 

He faced their silence. 

To whom thus Eglinton: 

You mean the will 

But that has been explained, I believe, by jurists. 

She was entitled to her widow's dower 

At common law. His legal knowledge was great 

Our judges tell us. 

Him Satan fleers, 

Mocker: 

And therefore he left out her name 

From the first draft but he did not leave out 

The presents for his granddaughter, for his daughters, 

For his sister, for his old cronies in Stratford 

And in London. And therefore when he was urged, 

As I believe, to name her 

He left her his 

Secondbest 

Bed. 

Punkt. 

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Leftherhis 

Secondbest 

Leftherhis 

Bestabed 

Secabest 

Leftabed. 

Woa! 

— Pretty countryfolk had few chattels then, John Eglinton observed, as they have still if our peasant 
plays are true to type. 

— He was a rich country gentleman, Stephen said, with a coat of arms and landed estate at 
Stratford and a house in Ireland yard, a capitalist shareholder, a bill promoter, a tithefarmer. Why did 
he not leave her his best bed if he wished her to snore away the rest of her nights in peace? 

— It is clear that there were two beds, a best and a secondbest, Mr Secondbest Best said finely. 

— Separatio a mensa et a thalamo, bettered Buck Mulligan and was smiled on. 

— Antiquity mentions famous beds, Second Eglinton puckered, bedsmiling Let me think. 

— Antiquity mentions that Stagyrite schoolurchin and bald heathen sage, Stephen said, who when 
dying in exile frees and endows his slaves, pays tribute to his elders, wills to be laid in earth near the 
bones of his dead wife and bids his friends be kind to an old mistress (don't forget Nell Gwynn 
Herpyllis) and let her live in his villa. 

— Do you mean he died so? Mr Best asked with slight concern. I mean... 

— He died dead drunk, Buck Mulligan capped. A quart of ale is a dish for a king. O, I must tell you 
what Dowden said! 

— What? asked Besteglinton 

William Shakespeare and company, limited. The people's William For terms apply: E. Dowden, 
Highfie Id house... 

— Lovely! Buck Mulligan suspired amorously. I asked him what he thought of the charge of 
pederasty brought against the bard. He lifted his hands and said: All we can say is that life ran very 
high in those days. Lovely! 

Catamite. 

— The sense of beauty leads us astray, said beautifulinsadness Best to ugling Eglinton 

Steadfast John replied severe: 

— The doctor can tell us what those words mean You cannot eat your cake and have it. 

Sayest thou so? Will they wrest from us, from me, the palm of beauty? 

— And the sense of property, Stephen said. He drew Shylock out of his own long pocket. The son 
of a maltjobber and moneylender he was himself a cornjobber and moneylender, with ten tods of corn 
hoarded in the famine riots. His borrowers are no doubt those divers of worship mentioned by Chettle 
Falstaffwho reported his uprightness of dealing. He sued a fellowplayer for the price of a few bags of 
malt and exacted his pound of flesh in interest for every money lent. How else could Aubrey's ostler 
and callboy get rich quick? All events brought grist to his mill Shylock chimes with the jewbaiting that 
followed the hanging and quartering of the queen's leech Lopez, his Jew's heart being plucked forth 

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while the sheeny was yet alive: Hamlet and Macbeth with the coming to the throne of a Scotch 
philosophaster with a turn for witchroasting. The lost armada is his jeer in Love's Labour Lost. His 
pageants, the histories, sail fullbellied on a tide of Mafeking enthusiasm Warwickshire Jesuits are tried 
and we have a porter's theory of equivocation. The Sea Venture comes home from Bermudas and the 
play Renan admired is written with Patsy Caliban, our American cousin. The sugared sonnets follow 
Sidney's. As for fay Elizabeth, otherwise carrotty Bess, the gross virgin who inspired The Merry 
Wives of Windsor, let some meinherr from Almany grope his life long for deephid meanings in the 
depths of the buckbasket. 

I think you're getting on very nicely. Just mix up a mixture of theolologicophilolological. Mingo, 
minxi, mictum, mingere. 

— Prove that he was a jew, John Eglinton dared,'expectantfy. Your dean of studies holds he was a 
holy Roman. 

Sufflaminandus sum. 

— He was made in Germany, Stephen replied, as the champion French polisher of Italian scandals. 

— A myriadminded man, Mr Best reminded. Coleridge called him myriadminded. 

Amplius. In societate humana hoc est maxime necessarium ut sit amicitia inter multos. 

— Saint Thomas, Stephen began... 

— Ora pro nobis, Monk Mulligan groaned, sinking to a chair. 

There he keened a wailing rune. 

— Pogue mahonel Acushla machree! It's destroyed we are from this day! It's destroyed we are 
surely! 

All smiled their smiles. 

— Saint Thomas, Stephen smiling said, whose gorbellied works I enjoy reading in the original, 
writing of incest from a standpoint different from that of the new Viennese school Mr Magee spoke of, 
likens it in his wise and curious way to an avarice of the emotions. He means that the love so given to 
one near in blood is covetously withheld from some stranger who, it may be, hungers for it. Jews, 
whom christians tax with avarice, are of all races the most given to intermarriage. Accusations are 
made in anger. The christian laws which built up the hoards of the jews (for whom, as for the lollards, 
storm was shelter) bound their affections too with hoops of steeL Whether these be sins or virtues old 
Nobodaddy will tell us at doomsday leet. But a man who holds so tightly to what he calls his rights 
over what he calls his debts will hold tightly also to what he calls his rights over her whom he calls his 
wife. No sir smile neighbour shall covet his ox or his wife or his manservant or his maidservant or his 
jackass. 

— Or his jennyass, Buck Mulligan antiphoned. 

— Gentle Will is being roughly handled, gentle Mr Best said gentry. 

— Which will? gagged sweetly Buck Mulligan We are getting mixed. 

— The will to live, John Eglinton philosophised, for poor Ann, Will's widow, is the will to die. 

— Requiescat! Stephen prayed. 

What of all the will to do? 
It has vanished long ago... 

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— She lies laid out in stark stiffiiess in that secondbest bed, the mobled queen, even though you 
prove that a bed in those days was as rare as a motorcar is now and that its carvings were the wonder 
of seven parishes. In old age she takes up with gospellers (one stayed with her at New Place and 
drank a quart of sack the town council paid for but in which bed he slept it skills not to ask) and heard 
she had a soul. She read or had read to her his chapbooks preferring them to the Merry Wives and, 
loosing her nightly waters on the Jordan, she thought over Hooks and Eyes for Believers' Breeches 
and The most Spiritual Snuffbox to Make the Most Devout Souls Sneeze. Venus has twisted her 
lips in prayer. Agenbite of inwit: remorse of conscience. It is an age of exhausted whoredom groping 
for its god. 

— History shows that to be true, inquit Eglintonus Chronolologos. The ages succeed one 
another. But we have it on high authority that a man's worst enemies shall be those of his own house 
and family. I feel that Russell is right. What do we care for his wife or father? I should say that only 
family poets have family lives. Falstaff was not a family man. I feel that the fat knight is his supreme 
creation. 

Lean, he lay back. Shy, deny thy kindred, the unco guid. Shy, supping with the godless, he sneaks 
the cup. A sire in Ultonian Antrim bade it him Visits him here on quarter days. Mr Magee, sir, there's 
a gentleman to see you. Me? Says he's your father, sir. Give me my Wordsworth Enter Magee Mor 
Matthew, a rugged rough rugheaded kern, in strossers with a buttoned codpiece, his nether stocks 
bemired with clauber often forests, a wand of wilding in his hand. 

Your own? He knows your old fellow. The widower. 

Hurrying to her squalid deathkir from gay Paris on the quayside I touched his hand. The voice, new 
warmth, speaking. Dr Bob Kenny is attending her. The eyes that wish me well But do not know me. 

— A father, Stephen said, battling against hopelessness, is a necessary evil He wrote the play in the 
months that followed his father's death If you hold that he, a greying man with two marriageable 
daughters, with thirtyfive years of life, nel mezzo del cammin di nostra vita, with fifty of experience, 
is the beardless undergraduate from Wittenberg then you must hold that his seventyyear old mother is 
the lustful queen. No. The corpse of John Shakespeare does not walk the night. From hour to hour it 
rots and rots. He rests, disarmed of fatherhood, having devised that mystical estate upon his son. 
Boccaccio's Calandrino was the first and last man who felt himself with child. Fatherhood, in the sense 
of conscious begetting, is unknown to man. It is a mystical estate, an apostolic succession, from only 
begetter to only begotten On that mystery and not on the madonna which the cunning Italian intellect 
flung to the mob of Europe the church is founded and founded irremovabry because founded, like the 
world, macro and microcosm, upon the void. Upon incertitude, upon unlikelihood. Amor matris, 
subjective and objective genitive, may be the only true thing in life. Paternity may be a legal fiction. 
Who is the father of any son that any son should love him or he any son? 

What the hell are you driving at? 

I know. Shut up. Blast you. I have reasons. 

Amplius. Adhuc. Iterum. Postea. 

Are you condemned to do this? 

— They are sundered by a bodily shame so steadfast that the criminal annals of the world, stained 
with all other incests and bestialities, hardly record its breach. Sons with mothers, sires with daughters, 
lesbic sisters, loves that dare not speak their name, nephews with grandmothers, jailbirds with 
keyholes, queens with prize bulls. The son unborn mars beauty: bom, he brings pain, divides affection, 
increases care. He is a new male: his growth is his father's decline, his youth his father's envy, his friend 
his father's enemy. 

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In me Monsieur- le-Prince I thought it. 

— What links them in nature? An instant of blind nit. 

Am I a father? If I were? 

Shrunken uncertain hand. 

— Sabellius, the African, subtlest heresiarch of all the beasts of the field, held that the Father was 
Himself His Own Son. The bulldog of Aquin, with whom no word shall be impossible, refutes him 
Well: if the father who has not a son be not a father can the son who has not a father be a son? When 
Rutlandbaconsouthamptonshakespeare or another poet of the same name in the comedy of errors 
wrote Hamlet he was not the father of his own son merely but, being no more a son, he was and felt 
himself the father of all his race, the father of his own grandfather, the father of his unborn grandson 
who, by the same token, never was born, for nature, as Mr Magee understands her, abhors 
perfection. 

Eglintoneyes, quick with pleasure, looked up shybrightfy. Gladly glancing, a merry puritan, through 
the twisted eglantine. 

Flatter. Rarefy. But flatter. 

— Himself his own father, Sonmulligan told himself Wait. I am big with child. I have an unborn child 
in my brain. Pallas Athena! A play! The play's the thing! Let me parturiate! 

He clasped his paunchbrow with both birthaiding hands. 

— As for his family, Stephen said, his mother's name lives in the forest of Arden Her death brought 
from him the scene with Vohimnia in Coriolanus. His boyson's death is the deathscene of young 
Arthur in King John. Hamlet, the black prince, is Hamnet Shakespeare. Who the girls in The 
Tempest, inPericles, in Winter's Tale are we know. Who Cleopatra, fleshpot of Egypt, and Cressid 
and Venus are we may guess. But there is another member of his family who is recorded. 

— The plot thickens, John Eglinton said. 

The quaker librarian, quaking, tiptoed in, quake, his mask, quake, with haste, quake, quack. 

Door closed. Cell Day. 

They list. Three. They. 

I you he they. 

Come, mess. 

STEPHEN: He had three brothers, Gilbert, Edmund, Richard. Gilbert in his old age told some 
cavaliers he got a pass for nowt from Maister Gatherer one time mass he did and he seen his brud 
Maister Wull the playwriter up in Lunnon in a wrastling play wud a man on's back. The playhouse 
sausage filled Gilbert's soul He is nowhere: but an Edmund and a Richard are recorded in the works 
of sweet William 

MAGEEGLINJOHN: Names! What's in a name? 

BEST: That is my name, Richard, don't you know. I hope you are going to say a good word for 
Richard, don't you know, for my sake. (Laughter) 

BUCKMULLIGAN: (Piano, diminuendo) 
Then outspoke medical Dick 

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To his comrade medical Davy... 

STEPHEN: In his trinity of black Wills, the villain shakebags, Iago, Richard Crookback, Edmund in 
King Lear, two bear the wicked uncles' names. Nay, that last play was written or being written while 
his brother Edmund lay dying in Southwark. 

BEST: I hope Edmund is going to catch it. I don't want Richard, my name . . . 

(Laughter) 

QUAKERLYSTER: {A tempo) But he that filches from me my good name... 

STEPHEN: (Stringendo) He has hidden his own name, a fair name, William, in the plays, a super 
here, a clown there, as a painter of old Italy set his face in a dark comer of his canvas. He has 
revealed it in the sonnets where there is Will in overplus. Like John o'Gaunt his name is dear to him, as 
dear as the coat and crest he toadied for, on a bend sable a spear or steeled argent, 
honorificabilitudinitatibus, dearer than his glory of greatest shakescene in the country. What's in a 
name? That is what we ask ourselves in childhood when we write the name that we are told is ours. A 
star, a daystar, a firedrake, rose at his birth. It shone by day in the heavens alone, brighter than Venus 
in the night, and by night it shone over delta in Cassiopeia, the recumbent constellation which is the 
signature of his initial among the stars. His eyes watched it, lowrying on the horizon, eastward of the 
bear, as he walked by the slumberous summer fields at midnight returning from Shottery and from her 
arms. 

Both satisfied. I too. 

Don't tell them he was nine years old when it was quenched. 

And from her arms. 

Wait to be wooed and won. Ay, meacock. Who will woo you? 

Read the skies. Autontimorumenos. Bous Stephanoumenos. Where's your configuration? 
Stephen, Stephen, cut the bread even. S. D: sua donna. Gia: di lui. gelindo risolve di non amare 
S. D. 

— What is that, Mr Dedalus? the quaker librarian asked. Was it a celestial phenomenon? 

— A star by night, Stephen said. A pillar of the cloud by day. 

What more's to speak? 

Stephen looked on his hat, his stick, his boots. 

Stephanos, my crown My sword. His boots are spoiling the shape of my feet. Buy a pair. Holes in 
my socks. Handkerchief too. 

— You make good use of the name, John Eglinton allowed. Your own name is strange enough. I 
suppose it explains your fantastical humour. 

Me, Magee and Mulligan. 

Fabulous artificer. The hawklike man. You flew. Whereto? Newhaven- Dieppe, steerage passenger. 
Paris and back. Lapwing. Icarus. Pater, ait. Seabedabbled, fallen, weltering. Lapwing you are. 
Lapwing be. 

Mr Best eagerquietfy lifted his book to say: 

— That's very interesting because that brother motive, don't you know, we find also in the old Irish 

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myths. Just what you say. The three brothers Shakespeare. In Grimm too, don't you know, the 
fairytales. The third brother that always marries the sleeping beauty and wins the best prize. 

Best of Best brothers. Good, better, best. 

The quaker librarian springhalted near. 

— I should like to know, he said, which brother you... I understand you to suggest there was 
misconduct with one of the brothers... But perhaps I am anticipating? 

He caught himself in the act: looked at all: refrained. 

An attendant from the doorway called: 

— Mr Lyster! Father Dineen wants... 

— O, Father Dineen! Directly. 

Swiftly rectfy creaking rectfy rectfy he was rectfy gone. 

John Eglinton touched the foil 

— Come, he said. Let us hear what you have to say of Richard and Edmund. You kept them for the 
last, didn't you? 

— In asking you to remember those two noble kinsmen nuncle Richie and nuncle Edmund, Stephen 
answered, I feel I am asking too much perhaps. A brother is as easily forgotten as an umbrella. 

Lapwing. 

Where is your brother? Apothecaries' hall My whetstone. Him, then Crarfty, Mulligan: now these. 
Speech, speech. But act. Act speech. They mock to try you Act. Be acted on. 

Lapwing. 

I am tired of my voice, the voice of Esau. My kingdom for a drink. 

On 

— You will say those names were already in the chronicles from which he took the stuff of his plays. 
Why did he take them rather than others? Richard, a whoreson crookback, misbegotten, makes love 
to a widowed Ann (what's in a name?), woos and wins her, a whoreson merry widow. Richard the 
conqueror, third brother, came after William the conquered. The other four acts of that play hang 
limply from that first. Of all his kings Richard is the only king unshielded by Shakespeare's reverence, 
the angel of the world. Why is the underplot of King Lear in which Edmund figures lifted out of 
Sidney's Arcadia and spatchcocked on to a Celtic legend older than history? 

— That was Will's way, John Eglinton defended. We should not now combine a Norse saga with an 
excerpt from a novel by George Meredith. Que voulez-vous? Moore would say. He puts Bohemia 
on the seacoast and makes Ulysses quote Aristotle. 

— Why? Stephen answered himself Because the theme of the false or the usurping or the 
adulterous brother or all three in one is to Shakespeare, what the poor are not, always with him. The 
note of banishment, banishment from the heart, banishment from home, sounds uninterruptedly from 
The Two Gentlemen of Verona onward till Prospero breaks his staff, buries it certain fathoms in the 
earth and drowns his book. It doubles itself in the middle of his life, reflects itself in another, repeats 
itself, protasis, epitasis, catastasis, catastrophe. It repeats itself again when he is near the grave, when 
his married daughter Susan, chip of the old block, is accused of adultery. But it was the original sin 
that darkened his understanding, weakened his will and left in him a strong inclination to evil The 

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words are those of my lords bishops of Maynooth An original sin and, like original sin, committed by 
another in whose sin he too has sinned. It is between the lines of his last written words, it is petrified on 
his tombstone under which her four bones are not to be laid. Age has not withered it. Beauty and 
peace have not done it away. It is in infinite variety everywhere in the world he has created, in Much 
Ado about Nothing, twice in As you like It, in The Tempest, in Hamlet, in Measure for Measure — 
and in all the other plays which I have not read. 

He laughed to free his mind from his mind's bondage. 

Judge Eglinton summed up. 

— The truth is midway, he affirmed. He is the ghost and the prince. He is all in alL 

— He is, Stephen said. The boy of act one is the mature man of act five. All in all In Cymbeline, in 
Othello he is bawd and cuckold. He acts and is acted on. Lover of an ideal or a perversion, like Jose 
he kills the real Carmen. His unremitting intellect is the hornmad Iago ceaselessly willing that the moor 
in him shall suffer. 

— Cuckoo! Cuckoo! Cuck Mulgan clucked lewdly. O word of fear! 

Dark dome received, reverbed. 

— And what a character is Iago! undaunted John Eglinton exclaimed. When all is said Dumas fils 
(or is it Dumas pere?) is right. After God Shakespeare has created most. 

— Man delights him not nor woman neither, Stephen said. He returns after a life of absence to that 
spot of earth where he was born, where he has always been, man and boy, a silent witness and there, 
his journey of life ended, he plants his mulberrytree in the earth. Then dies. The motion is ended. 
Gravediggers bury Hamlet (pere?) and Hamlet/?'/?. A king and a prince at last in death with incidental 
music. And, what though murdered and betrayed, bewept by all frail tender hearts for, Dane or 
Dub liner, sorrow for the dead is the only husband from whom they refuse to be divorced. If you like 
the epilogue look long on it: prosperous Prospero, the good man rewarded, Lizzie, grandpa's Limp of 
love, and nuncle Richie, the bad man taken off by poetic justice to the place where the bad niggers go. 
Strong curtain. He found in the world without as actual what was in his world within as possible. 
Maeterlinck says: If Socrates leave his house today he will find the sage seated on his doorstep. 
If Judas go forth tonight it is to Judas his steps will tend. Every life is many days, day after day. 
We walk through ourselves, meeting robbers, ghosts, giants, old men, young men, wives, widows, 
brothers- in- love, but always meeting ourselves. The playwright who wrote the folio of this world and 
wrote it badly (He gave us light first and the sun two days later), the lord of things as they are whom 
the most Roman of catholics call dio boia, hangman god, is doubtless all in all in all of us, ostler and 
butcher, and would be bawd and cuckold too but that in the economy of heaven, foretold by Hamlet, 
there are no more marriages, glorified man, an androgynous angel, being a wife unto himself 

— Eureka! Buck Mulligan cried. Eureka! 

Suddenly happied he jumped up and reached in a stride John Eglinton's desk. 

— May I? he said. The Lord has spoken to Malachi. 

He began to scribble on a slip of paper. 

Take some slips from the counter going out. 

— Those who are married, Mr Best, douce herald, said, all save one, shall live. The rest shall keep 
as they are. 

He laughed, unmarried, at Eglinton Johannes, of arts a bachelor. 

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Unwed, unfancied, ware of wiles, they fingerponder nightly each his variorum edition of The 
Taming of the Shrew. 

— You are a delusion, said roundly John Eglinton to Stephen. You have brought us all this way to 
show us a French triangle. Do you believe your own theory? 

— No, Stephen said promptly. 

— Are you going to write it? Mr Best asked. You ought to make it a dialogue, don't you know, like 
the Platonic dialogues Wilde wrote. 

John Eclecticon doubly smiled. 

— Well, in that case, he said, I don't see why you should expect payment for it since you don't 
believe it yourself Dowden believes there is some mystery in Hamlet but will say no more. Herr 
Bleibtreu, the man Piper met in Berlin, who is working up that Rutland theory, believes that the secret 
is hidden in the Stratford monument. He is going to visit the present duke, Piper says, and prove to 
him that his ancestor wrote the plays. It will come as a surprise to his grace. But he believes his theory. 

I believe, O Lord, help my unbelief That is, help me to believe or help me to unbelieve? Who helps 
to believe? Egomen. Who to unbelieve? Other chap. 

— You are the only contributor to Dana who asks for pieces of silver. Then I don't know about the 
next number. Fred Ryan wants space for an article on economics. 

Fraidrine. Two pieces of silver he lent me. Tide you over. Economics. 

— For a guinea, Stephen said, you can publish this interview. 

Buck Mulligan stood up from his laughing scribbling, laughing: and then gravely said, honeying 
malice: 

— I called upon the bard Kinch at his summer residence in upper Mecklenburgh street and found 
him deep in the study of the Summa contra Gentiles in the company of two gonorrheal ladies, Fresh 
Nelly and Rosalie, the coalquay whore. 

He broke away. 

— Come, Kinch. Come, wandering Aengus of the birds. 

Come, Kinch. You have eaten all we left. Ay. I will serve you your orts and offals. 

Stephen rose. 

Life is many days. This will end. 

— We shall see you tonight, John Eglinton said. Notre ami Moore says Malachi Mulgan must be 
there. 

Buck Mulligan flaunted his slip and panama. 

— Monsieur Moore, he said, lecturer on French letters to the youth of Ireland. I'll be there. Come, 
Kinch, the bards must drink. Can you walk straight? 

Laughing, he... 

Swill till eleven Irish nights entertainment. 

Lubber... 

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Stephen followed a lubber... 

One day in the national library we had a discussion. Shakes. After. His Lib back: I followed. I gall 
his kibe. 

Stephen, greeting, then all amort, followed a lubber jester, a wellkempt head, newbarbered, out of 
the vaulted cell into a shattering daylight of no thought. 

What have I learned? Of them? Of me? 

Walk like Haines now. 

The constant readers' room In the readers' book Cashel Boyle O'Connor Fitzmaurice Tisdall 
Farrell parafes his polysyllables. Item was Hamlet mad? The quaker's pate godlfty with a priesteen in 
booktalk. 

— O please do, sir... I shall be most pleased... 

Amused Buck Mulligan mused in pleasant murmur with himself, selfiiodding: 

— A pleased bottom 

The turnstile. 

Is that?... Bhieribboned hat... Idfy writing. . . What? Looked?... 

The curving balustrade: smoothsliding Mincius. 

Puck Mulligan, panamahelmeted, went step by step, iambing, trolling: 

John Eglinton, my jo, John, Why won't you wed a wife? 

He spluttered to the air: 

— O, the chinless Chinaman! Chin Chon Eg Lin Ton. We went over to their playbox, Haines and I, 
the plumbers' haft Our players are creating a new art for Europe like the Greeks or M. Maeterlinck. 
Abbey Theatre! I smell the pubic sweat of monks. 

He spat blank. 

Forgot: any more than he forgot the whipping lousy Lucy gave him And left the femme de trente 
ans. And why no other children born? And his first child a girl? 

Afterwit. Go back. 

The dour recluse still there (he has his cake) and the douce youngling, minion of pleasure, Phedo's 
toyable fair hair. 

Eh... I just eh... wanted... I forgot... he... 

— Longworth and M' Curdy Atkinson were there... 

Puck Mulligan footed featfy, trilling: 

/ hardly hear the purlieu cry 
Or a tommy talk as I pass one by 
Before my thoughts begin to run 
On F. M 'Curdy Atkinson, 
The same that had the wooden leg 
And that filibustering filibeg 

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That never dared to slake his drouth, 
Magee that had the chinless mouth. 
Being afraid to marry on earth 
They masturbated for all they were worth. 

Jest oa Know thyself 

Halted, below me, a quizzer looks at me. I halt. 

— Mournful mummer, Buck Mulligan moaned. Synge has left off wearing black to be like nature. 
Only crows, priests and English coal are black. 

A laugh tripped over his lips. 

— Longworth is awfully sick, he said, after what you wrote about that old hake Gregory. O you 
inquisitional drunken jewjesuit! She gets you a job on the paper and then you go and slate her drivel to 
Jaysus. Couldn't you do the Yeats touch? 

He went on and down, mopping, chanting with waving graceful arms: 

— The most beautiful book that has come out of our country in my time. One thinks of Homer. 

He stopped at the stairfoot. 

— I have conceived a play for the mummers, he said solemnly. 

The pillared Moorish half shadows entwined. Gone the nine men's morrice with caps of indices. 

In sweetly varying voices Buck Mulligan read his tablet: Everyman His own Wife or A 
Honeymoon in the Hand (a national immorality in three orgasms) by Ballocky Mulligan. 

He turned a happy patch's smirk to Stephen, saying: 

— The disguise, I fear, is thin. But listen. 

He read, marcato: 

— Characters: 

TODY TOSTOFF (a ruined Pole) 

CRAB (a bushranger) 

MEDICAL DICK ) 

and ) (two birds with one stone) 

MEDICAL DAVY ) 

MOTHER GROGAN (a watercarrier) 

FRESH NELLY 

and 

ROSALIE (the coalquay whore). 

He laughed, lolling a to and fro head, walking on, followed by Stephen: and mirthfully he told the 
shadows, souls of men: 

— O, the night in the Camden hall when the daughters of Erin had to lift their skirts to step over you 
as you lay in your mulberrycoloured, multicoloured, multitudinous vomit! 

— The most innocent son of Erin, Stephen said, for whom they ever lifted them 

About to pass through the doorway, feeling one behind, he stood aside. 

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Part. The moment is now. Where then? If Socrates leave his house today, if Judas go forth tonight. 
Why? That lies in space which I in time must come to, inehictabfy. 

My will: his will that fronts me. Seas between 

A man passed out between them, bowing, greeting. 

— Good day again, Buck Mulligan said. 

The portico. 

Here I watched the birds for augury. Aengus of the birds. They go, they come. Last night I flew. 
Easily flew. Men wondered. Street of harlots after. A creamfruit melon he held to me. In. You will see. 

— The wandering jew, Buck Mulgan whispered with clown's awe. Did you see his eye? He 
looked upon you to List after you. I fear thee, ancient mariner. O, Kinch, thou art in peril Get thee a 
breechpad. 

Manner of Oxenford. 

Day. Wheelbarrow sun over arch of bridge. 

A dark back went before them, step of a pard, down, out by the gateway, under portcullis barbs. 

They followed. 

Offend me stii Speak on 

Kind air defined the coigns of houses in Kildare street. No birds. Frail from the housetops two 
plumes of smoke ascended, pluming, and in a flaw of softness softly were blown. 

Cease to strive. Peace of the druid priests of Cymbeline: hierophantic: from wide earth an altar. 

Laud we the gods 

And let our crooked smokes climb to their nostrils 

From our bless 'd altars. 

The superior, the very reverend John Conmee S.J. reset his smooth watch in his interior pocket as 
he came down the presbytery steps. Five to three. Just nice time to walk to Artane. What was that 
boy's name again? Dignam. Yes. Vere dignum et iustum est. Brother Swan was the person to see. 
Mr Cunningham's letter. Yes. Oblige him, if possible. Good practical catholic: useful at mission time. 

A onelegged sailor, swinging himself onward by lazy jerks of his crutches, growled some notes. He 
jerked short before the convent of the sisters of charity and held out a peaked cap for alms towards 
the very reverend John Conmee S. J. Father Conmee blessed him in the sun for his purse held, he 
knew, one silver crown. 

Father Conmee crossed to Mountjoy square. He thought, but not for long, of soldiers and sailors, 
whose legs had been shot off by cannonballs, ending their days in some pauper ward, and of cardinal 
Wolsey's words: If I had served my God as I have served my king He would not have 
abandoned me in my old days. He walked by the treeshade of sunnywinking leaves: and towards 
him came the wife of Mr David Sheehy M.P. 

— Very well, indeed, father. And you, father? 

Father Conmee was wonderfully well indeed. He would go to Buxton probably for the waters. And 
her boys, were they getting on well at Belvedere? Was that so? Father Conmee was very glad indeed 
to hear that. And Mr Sheehy himself? Still in London. The house was still sitting, to be sure it was. 

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Beautiful weather it was, delightful indeed. Yes, it was very probable that Father Bernard Vaughan 
would come again to preach O, yes: a very great success. A wonderful man realty. 

Father Conmee was very glad to see the wife of Mr David Sheehy M.P. looking so well and he 
begged to be remembered to Mr David Sheehy M.P. Yes, he would certainly call 

— Good afternoon, Mrs Sheehy. 

Father Conmee doffed his silk hat and smiled, as he took leave, at the jet beads of her mantilla 
inkshining in the sun. And smiled yet again, in going. He had cleaned his teeth, he knew, with arecanut 
paste. 

Father Conmee walked and, walking, smiled for he thought on Father Bernard Vaughan's droll eyes 
and cockney voice. 

— Pilate! Wy don't you old back that owlin mob? 

A zealous man, however. Realty he was. And realty did great good in his way. Beyond a doubt. He 
loved Ireland, he said, and he loved the Irish. Of good family too would one think it? Welsh, were 
they not? 

O, lest he forget. That letter to father provincial 

Father Conmee stopped three little schoolboys at the corner of Mountjoy square. Yes: they were 
from Belvedere. The little house. Aha. And were they good boys at school? O. That was very good 
now. And what was his name? Jack Sohan And his name? Ger. Galkher. And the other little man? 
His name was Branny Lynam O, that was a very nice name to have. 

Father Conmee gave a letter from his breast to Master Branny Lynam and pointed to the red 
pillarbox at the corner of Fitzgibbon street. 

— But mind you don't post yourself into the box, little man, he said. 

The boys sixeyed Father Conmee and laughed: 

— O, sir. 

— Well, let me see if you can post a letter, Father Conmee said. 

Master Branny Lynam ran across the road and put Father Conmee's letter to father provincial into 
the mouth of the bright red letterbox Father Conmee smiled and nodded and smiled and walked along 
Mountjoy square east. 

Mr Denis J Maginni, professor of dancing &c, in silk hat, slate frockcoat with silk facings, white 
kerchief tie, tight lavender trousers, canary gloves and pointed patent boots, walking with grave 
deportment most respectfully took the curbstone as he passed lady Maxwell at the corner of Dignam's 
court. 

Was that not Mrs M'Guinness? 

Mrs M'Guinness, stately, sitverhaired, bowed to Father Conmee from the farther footpath along 
which she sailed. And Father Conmee smiled and saluted. How did she do? 

A fine carriage she had. Like Mary, queen of Scots, something. And to think that she was a 
pawnbroker! Well, now! Such a... what should he say?... such a queenly mien. 

Father Conmee walked down Great Charles street and glanced at the shutup free church on his left. 
The reverend T R. Greene BA. will (D.V.) speak. The incumbent they called him He felt it 
incumbent on him to say a few words. But one should be charitable. Invincible ignorance. They acted 

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according to their lights. 

Father Conmee turned the corner and walked along the North Circular road. It was a wonder that 
there was not a tramline in such an important thoroughfare. Surely, there ought to be. 

A band of satchelled schoolboys crossed from Richmond street. All raised untidy caps. Father 
Conmee greeted them more than once benignly. Christian brother boys. 

Father Conmee smelt incense on his right hand as he walked. Saint Joseph's church Portland row. 
For aged and virtuous females. Father Conmee raised his hat to the Blessed Sacrament. Virtuous: but 
occasionally they were also badtempered. 

Near Aldborough house Father Conmee thought of that spendthrift nobleman. And now it was an 
office or something 

Father Conmee began to walk along the North Strand road and was saluted by Mr William 
Gallagher who stood in the doorway of his shop. Father Conmee saluted Mr William Gallagher and 
perceived the odours that came from baconflitches and ample cools of butter. He passed Grogan's the 
Tobacconist against which newsboards leaned and told of a dreadful catastrophe in New York. In 
America those things were continually happening. Unfortunate people to die like that, unprepared. 
Still, an act of perfect contrition. 

Father Conmee went by Daniel Bergin's publichouse against the window of which two unlabouring 
men lounged. They saluted him and were saluted. 

Father Conmee passed H. J. O'Neill's funeral establishment where Corny Kelleher totted figures in 
the daybook while he chewed a blade of hay. A constable on his beat saluted Father Conmee and 
Father Conmee saluted the constable. In Youkstetter's, the porkbutcher's, Father Conmee observed 
pig's puddings, white and black and red, lie neatly curled in tubes. 

Moored under the trees of Charleville Mall Father Conmee saw a turfbarge, a towhorse with 
pendent head, a bargeman with a hat of dirty straw seated amidships, smoking and staring at a branch 
of poplar above him It was idyllic: and Father Conmee reflected on the providence of the Creator 
who had made turf to be in bogs whence men might dig it out and bring it to town and hamlet to make 
fires in the houses of poor people. 

OnNewcomen bridge the very reverend John Conmee S.J. of saint Francis Xavier's church upper 
Gardiner street, stepped on to an outward bound tram 

Off an inward bound tram stepped the reverend Nicholas Dudley C. C. of saint Agatha's church, 
north William street, on to Newcomen bridge. 

At Newcomen bridge Father Conmee stepped into an outward bound tram for he disliked to 
traverse on foot the dingy way past Mud Island. 

Father Conmee sat in a corner of the tramcar, a blue ticket tucked with care in the eye of one 
plump kid glove, while four shillings, a sixpence and five pennies chuted from his other plump 
glovepalm into his purse. Passing the ivy church he reflected that the ticket inspector usually made his 
visit when one had carelessly thrown away the ticket. The solemnity of the occupants of the car 
seemed to Father Conmee excessive for a journey so short and cheap. Father Conmee liked cheerful 
decorum 

It was a peaceful day. The gentleman with the glasses opposite Father Conmee had finished 
explaining and looked down His wife, Father Conmee supposed. A tiny yawn opened the mouth of 
the wife of the gentleman with the glasses. She raised her small gloved fist, yawned ever so gently, 
tiptapping her small gloved fist on her opening mouth and smiled tinify, sweetly. 

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Father Conmee perceived her perfume in the car. He perceived also that the awkward man at the 
other side of her was sitting on the edge of the seat. 

Father Conmee at the altarrails placed the host with difficulty in the mouth of the awkward old man 
who had the shaky head. 

At Annesley bridge the tram halted and, when it was about to go, an old woman rose suddenly 
from her place to alight. The conductor pulled the bellstrap to stay the car for her. She passed out with 
her basket and a marketnet: and Father Conmee saw the conductor help her and net and basket 
down: and Father Conmee thought that, as she had nearly passed the end of the penny fare, she was 
one of those good souls who had always to be told twice bless you, my child, that they have been 
absolved, pray for me. But they had so many worries in life, so many cares, poor creatures. 

From the hoardings Mr Eugene Stratton grimaced with thick niggerlips at Father Conmee. 

Father Conmee thought of the souls of black and brown and yellow men and of his sermon on saint 
Peter Ckver S.J. and the African mission and of the propagation of the faith and of the millions of 
black and brown and yellow souls that had not received the baptism of water when their last hour 
came like a thief in the night. That book by the Belgian Jesuit, Le Nombre des Elus, seemed to Father 
Conmee a reasonable plea. Those were millions of human souls created by God in His Own likeness 
to whom the faith had not (D.V.) been brought. But they were God's souls, created by God. It 
seemed to Father Conmee a pity that they should all be lost, a waste, if one might say. 

At the Howth road stop Father Conmee alighted, was saluted by the conductor and saluted in his 
turn. 

The Malahide road was quiet. It pleased Father Conmee, road and name. The joybells were ringing 
in gay Malahide. Lord Talbot de Malahide, immediate hereditary lord admiral of Malahide and the 
seas adjoining. Then came the call to arms and she was maid, wife and widow in one day. Those were 
old worldish days, loyal times in joyous townlands, old times in the barony. 

Father Conmee, walking, thought of his little book Old Times in the Barony and of the book that 
might be written about Jesuit houses and of Mary Rochfort, daughter of lord Molesworth, first 
countess of Belvedere. 

A listless lady, no more young, walked alone the shore of lough Ennel, Mary, first countess of 
Belvedere, listlessly walking in the evening, not startled when an otter plunged. Who could know the 
truth? Not the jealous lord Belvedere and not her confessor if she had not committed adultery fully, 
eiaculatio seminis inter vas naturale mulieris, with her husband's brother? She would half confess if 
she had not all sinned as women did. Only God knew and she and he, her husband's brother. 

Father Conmee thought of that tyrannous incontinence, needed however for man's race on earth, 
and of the ways of God which were not our ways. 

Don John Conmee walked and moved in times of yore. He was humane and honoured there. He 
bore in mind secrets confessed and he smiled at smiling noble faces in a beeswaxed drawingroom, 
ceiled with full fruit clusters. And the hands of a bride and of a bridegroom, noble to noble, were 
impalmed by Don John Conmee. 

It was a charming day. 

The rychgate of a field showed Father Conmee breadths of cabbages, curtseying to him with ample 
underleaves. The sky showed him a flock of small white clouds going slowly down the wind. 
Moutonner, the French said. A just and homely word. 

Father Conmee, reading his office, watched a flock of muttoning clouds over Rathcofley. His 

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thinsocked ankles were tickled by the stubble of Clongowes field. He walked there, reading in the 
evening, and heard the cries of the boys' lines at their play, young cries in the quiet evening He was 
their rector: his reign was mild. 

Father Conmee drew off his gloves and took his rededged breviary out. An ivory bookmark told 
him the page. 

Nones. He should have read that before lunch But lady Maxwell had come. 

Father Conmee read in secret Pater and Ave and crossed his breast. Deus in adiutorium. 

He walked calmly and read mutely the nones, walking and reading till he came to Res in Beati 
immaculati: Principium verborum tuorum Veritas: in eternum omnia indicia iustitiae tuae. 

A flushed young man came from a gap of a hedge and after him came a young woman with wild 
nodding daisies in her hand. The young man raised his cap abruptly: the young woman abruptly bent 
and with slow care detached from her light skirt a clinging twig. 

Father Conmee blessed both gravely and turned a thin page of his breviary. Sin: Principes 
persecuti sunt me gratis: et a verbis tuis formidavit cor meum. 



Corny Kelleher closed his long daybook and glanced with his drooping eye at a pine coffrnlid 
sentried in a corner. He pulled himself erect, went to it and, spinning it on its axle, viewed its shape and 
brass furnishings. Chewing his blade of hay he laid the coffinlid by and came to the doorway. There he 
tilted his hatbrimto give shade to his eyes and leaned against the doorcase, looking idfy out. 

Father John Conmee stepped into the Dolrymount tram on Newcomen bridge. 

Corny Kelleher locked his largefooted boots and gazed, his hat downtilted, chewing his blade of 
hay. 

Constable 57C, on his beat, stood to pass the time of day. 

— That's a fine day, Mr Kelleher. 

— Ay, Corny Kelleher said. 

— It's very close, the constable said. 

Corny Kelleher sped a silent jet of hayjuice arching from his mouth while a generous white arm from 
a window in Eccles street flung forth a coin. 

— What's the best news? he asked. 

— I seen that particular party last evening, the constable said with bated breath. 



A onelegged sailor crutched himself round MacConnell's corner, skirting Rabaiotti's icecream car, 
and jerked himself up Eccles street. Towards Larry O'Rourke, in shirtsleeves in his doorway, he 
growled unamiabfy: 

— For England. . . 

He swung himself violently forward past Katey and Boody Dedahis, halted and growled: 

— home and beauty. 

J. J. O'Molfoys white careworn face was told that Mr Lambert was in the warehouse with a visitor. 

A stout lady stopped, took a copper coin from her purse and dropped it into the cap held out to 

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her. The sailor grumbled thanks, glanced sourly at the unheeding windows, sank his head and swung 
himself forward four strides. 

He halted and growled angrily: 

— For England. . . 

Two barefoot urchins, sucking long liquorice laces, halted near him, gaping at his stump with their 
yellowslobbered mouths. 

He swung himself forward in vigorous jerks, halted, lifted his head towards a window and bayed 
deeply: 

— home and beauty. 

The gay sweet chirping whistling within went on a bar or two, ceased. The blind of the window was 
drawn aside. A card Unfurnished Apartments slipped from the sash and fell A plump bare generous 
arm shone, was seen, held forth from a white petticoatbodice and taut shiftstraps. A woman's hand 
flung forth a coin over the area railings. It fell on the path 

One of the urchins ran to it, picked it up and dropped it into the minstrel's cap, saying: 

— There, sir. 



Katey and Boody Dedalus shoved in the door of the closesteaming kitchen. 

— Did you put in the books? Boody asked. 

Maggy at the range rammed down a greyish mass beneath bubbling suds twice with her potstick 
and wiped her brow. 

— They wouldn't give anything on them, she said. 

Father Conmee walked through Clongowes fields, his thinsocked ankles tickled by stubble. 

— Where did you try? Boody asked. 

— M'Guinness's. 

Boody stamped her foot and threw her satchel on the table. 

— Bad cess to her big face! she cried. 

Katey went to the range and peered with squinting eyes. 

— What's in the pot? she asked. 

— Shirts, Maggy said. 

Boody cried angrily: 

— Crickey, is there nothing for us to eat? 

Katey, lifting the kettlelid in a pad of her stained skirt, asked: 

— And what's in this? 

A heavy fume gushed in answer. 

— Peasoup, Maggy said. 

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— Where did you get it? Katey asked. 

— Sister Mary Patrick, Maggy said. 

The lacquey rang his bell. 

— Barang! 

Boody sat down at the table and said hungrily: 

— Give us it here. 

Maggy poured yellow thick soup from the kettle into a bowl. Katey, sitting opposite Boody, said 
quietly, as her fingertip lifted to her mouth random crumbs: 

— A good job we have that much Where's Difty? 

— Gone to meet lather, Maggy said. 

Boody, breaking big chunks of bread into the yellow soup, added: 

— Our father who art not in heaven. 

Maggy, pouring yellow soup in Kateys bowl, exclaimed: 

— Boody! For shame! 

A skiff, a crumpled throwaway, Elijah is coming, rode lightly down the Liffey, under Loopline 
bridge, shooting the rapids where water chafed around the bridgepiers, sailing eastward past hulls and 
anchorchains, between the Customhouse old dock and George's quay. 



The blond girl in Thornton's bedded the wicker basket with rustling fibre. Blazes Boylan handed her 
the bottle swathed in pink tissue paper and a small jar. 

— Put these in first, will you? he said. 

— Yes, sir, the blond girl said. And the fruit on top. 

— That'll do, game baft, Blazes Boylan said. 

She bestowed fat pears neatly, head by tail, and among them ripe shamefaced peaches. 

Blazes Boylan walked here and there in new tan shoes about the fruitsmelling shop, lifting fruits, 
young juicy crinkled and plump red tomatoes, sniffing smells. 

H. E. L. Y.'S filed before him, tallwhitehatted, past Tangier lane, plodding towards their goal. 

He turned suddenly from a chip of strawberries, drew a gold watch from his fob and held it at its 
chain's length 

— Can you send them by tram? Now? 

A darkbacked figure under Merchants' arch scanned books on the hawker's cart. 

— Certainly, sir. Is it in the city? 

— O, yes, Blazes Boylan said. Ten minutes. 

The blond girl handed him a docket and pencil. 

— Will you write the address, sir? 

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Blazes Boylan at the counter wrote and pushed the docket to her. 

— Send it at once, will you? he said. It's for an invalid. 

— Yes, sir. I will, sir. 

Blazes Boylan rattled merry money in his trousers' pocket. 

— What's the damage? he asked. 

The blond girl's slim fingers reckoned the fruits. 

Blazes Boylan looked into the cut of her blouse. A young pullet. He took a red carnation from the 
tall stemglass. 

— This for me? he asked gallantry. 

The blond girl glanced sideways at him, got up regardless, with his tie a bit crooked, blushing 

— Yes, sir, she said. 

Bending archly she reckoned again fat pears and blushing peaches. 

Blazes Boylan looked in her blouse with more favour, the stalk of the red flower between his smiling 
teeth 

— May I say a word to your telephone, missy? he asked roguishly. 



— Ma /Almidano Artifoni said. 

He gazed over Stephen's shoulder at Goldsmith's knobby poll 

Two carfuls of tourists passed slowly, their women sitting fore, gripping the handrests. Palefaces. 
Men's arms frankly round their stunted forms. They looked from Trinity to the blind columned porch 
of the bank of Ireland where pigeons roocoocooed. 

— Anch'io ho avuto di queste idee, ALMIDANO ARTIFONI SAID, quand' ero giovine come 
Lei. Eppoi mi sono convinto che il mondo e una bestia. E peccato. Perche la sua voce... sarebbe 
un cespite di rendita, via. Invece, Lei si sacrifica. 

— Sacrifizio incruento, Stephen said smiling, swaying his ashplant in slow swingswong from its 
midpoint, lightly. 

— Speriamo, the round mustachioed face said pleasantry. Ma, dia retta a me. Ci rifletta. 

By the stern stone hand of Grattan, bidding halt, an Inchicore tram unloaded straggling Highland 
soldiers of a band. 

— Ci rifletterd, Stephen said, glancing down the solid trouserleg 

— Ma, sul serio, eh ? Almidano Artifoni said. 

His heavy hand took Stephen's firmly. Human eyes. They gazed curiously an instant and turned 
quickly towards a Dalkey tram 

— Eccolo, Almidano Artifoni said in friendly haste. Venga a trovarmi e cipensi. Addio, caro. 

— Arrivederla, maestro, Stephen said, raising his hat when his hand was freed. E grazie. 

— Di che? Almidano Artifoni said. Scusi, eh? Tante belle cose! 

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Aknidano Artifoni, holding up a baton of rolled music as a signal, trotted on stout trousers after the 
Dalkey tram In vain he trotted, signalling in vain among the rout of barekneed gillies smuggling 
implements of music through Trinity gates. 



Miss Dunne hid the Capel street library copy of The Woman in White far back in her drawer and 
rolled a sheet of gaudy notepaper into her typewriter. 

Too much mystery business in it. Is he in love with that one, Marion? Change it and get another by 
Mary Cecil Haye. 

The disk shot down the groove, wobbled a while, ceased and ogled them six. 

Miss Dunne clicked on the keyboard: 

—16 June 1904. 

Five taUwhitehatted sandwichmen between Monypeny's comer and the slab where Wolfe Tone's 
statue was not, eeled themselves turning H. E. L. Y.'S and plodded back as they had come. 

Then she stared at the large poster of Marie Kendall, charming soubrette, and, listlessly lolling, 
scribbled on the jotter sixteens and capital esses. Mustard hair and dauby cheeks. She's not 
nicelooking, is she? The way she's holding up her bit of a skirt. Wonder will that fellow be at the band 
tonight. If I could get that dressmaker to make a concertina skirt like Susy Nagle's. They kick out 
grand. Shannon and all the boatchib swells never took his eyes off her. Hope to goodness he won't 
keep me here till seven. 

The telephone rang rudely by her ear. 

— Hello. Yes, sir. No, sir. Yes, sir. I'll ring them up after five. Only those two, sir, for Belfast and 
LiverpooL All right, sir. Then I can go after six if you're not back. A quarter after. Yes, sir. 
Twentyseven and six I'll tell him Yes: one, seven, six. 

She scribbled three figures on an envelope. 

— Mr Boylan! Hello! That gentleman from SPORT was in looking for you Mr Lenehan, yes. He 
said he'll be in the Ormond at four. No, sir. Yes, sir. I'll ring them up after five. 



Two pink faces turned in the flare of the tiny torch. 

—Who's that? Ned Lambert asked. Is that Crotty? 

— Ringabella and Crosshaven, a voice replied groping for foothold. 

— Hello, Jack, is that yourself? Ned Lambert said, raising in salute his pliant lath among the 
flickering arches. Come on. Mind your steps there. 

The vesta in the clergyman's uplifted hand consumed itself in a long soft flame and was let fall At 
their feet its red speck died: and mouldy air closed round them 

— How interesting! a refined accent said in the gloom 

— Yes, sir, Ned Lambert said heartily. We are standing in the historic council chamber of saint 
Mary's abbey where silken Thomas proclaimed himself a rebel in 1534. This is the most historic spot 
in all Dublin. O'Madden Burke is going to write something about it one of these days. The old bank of 
Ireland was over the way till the time of the union and the original jews' temple was here too before 
they built their synagogue over in Adelaide road. You were never here before, Jack, were you? 

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—No, Ned. 

— He rode down through Dame walk, the refined accent said, if my memory serves me. The 
mansion of the Kildares was in Thomas court. 

— That's right, Ned Lambert said. That's quite right, sir. 

— If you will be so kind then, the clergyman said, the next time to allow me perhaps... 

— Certainly, Ned Lambert said. Bring the camera whenever you like. I'll get those bags cleared 
away from the windows. You can take it from here or from here. 

In the still faint light he moved about, tapping with his lath the piled seedbags and points of vantage 
on the floor. 

From a long face a beard and gaze hung on a chessboard. 

— I'm deeply obliged, Mr Lambert, the clergyman said. I won't trespass on your valuable time... 

— You're welcome, sir, Ned Lambert said. Drop in whenever you like. Next week, say. Can you 

see? 

— Yes, yes. Good afternoon, Mr Lambert. Very pleased to have met you. 

— Pleasure is mine, sir, Ned Lambert answered. 

He followed his guest to the outlet and then whirled his lath away among the pillars. With J. J. 
O'Molloy he came forth slowly into Mary's abbey where draymen were loading floats with sacks of 
carob and palmnut meal, O'Connor, Wexford. 

He stood to read the card in his hand. 

— The reverend Hugh C. Love, Rathcofley. Present address: Saint Michael's, Sallins. Nice young 
chap he is. He's writing a book about the Fitzgeralds he told me. He's well up in history, faith. 

The young woman with slow care detached from her light skirt a clinging twig. 

— I thought you were at a new gunpowder plot, J. J. O'Molloy said. 

Ned Lambert cracked his fingers in the air. 

— God! he cried. I forgot to tell him that one about the earl of Kildare after he set fire to Cashel 
cathedraL You know that one? I'm bloody sorry I did it, says he, but I declare to God I thought 
the archbishop was inside. He mightn't like it, though. What? God, I'll tell him anyhow. That was the 
great earl, the Fitzgerald Mor. Hot members they were all of them, the Geraldines. 

The horses he passed started nervously under their slack harness. He slapped a piebald haunch 
quivering near him and cried: 

— Woa, sonny! 

He turned to J. J. O'Molloy and asked: 

—Well, Jack. What is it? What's the trouble? Wait awhile. Hold hard. 

With gaping mouth and head far back he stood still and, after an instant, sneezed loudly. 

— Chow! he said. Blast you! 

— The dust from those sacks, J. J. O'Molloy said polite ry. 

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— No, Ned Lambert gasped, I caught a... cold night before... blast your soul... night before last... 
and there was a hell of a lot of draught... 

He held his handkerchief ready for the coming... 

— I was... Glasnevin this morning... poor little... what do you call him... Chow!... Mother ofMoses! 



Tom Rochford took the top disk from the pile he clasped against his claret waistcoat. 

— See? he said. Say it's turn six. In here, see. Turn Now On. 

He slid it into the left slot for them It shot down the groove, wobbled a while, ceased, ogling them: 
six. 

Lawyers of the past, haughty, pleading, beheld pass from the consolidated taxing office to NisiPrius 
court Richie Goulding carrying the costbag of Goulding, Collis and Ward and heard rustling from the 
admiralty division of king's bench to the court of appeal an elderly female with false teeth smiling 
incredulously and a black silk skirt of great amplitude. 

— See? he said. See now the last one I put in is over here: Turns Over. The impact. Leverage, see? 

He showed them the rising column of disks on the right. 

— Smart idea, Nosey Frynn said, snuffling. So a fellow coming in late can see what rum is on and 
what turns are over. 

— See? Tom Rochford said. 

He slid in a disk for himself: and watched it shoot, wobble, ogle, stop: four. Turn Now On. 

— I'll see him now in the Ormond, Lenehan said, and sound him One good turn deserves another. 

— Do, Tom Rochford said. Tell him I'm Boylan with impatience. 

— Goodnight, M'Coy said abruptly. When you two begin 

Nosey Ffynn stooped towards the lever, snuffling at it. 

— But how does it work here, Tommy? he asked. 

— Tooraloo, Lenehan said. See you later. 

He followed M'Coy out across the tiny square of Crampton court. 

— He's a hero, he said simply. 

— I know, M'Coy said. The drain, you mean. 

— Drain? Lenehan said. It was down a manhole. 

They passed Dan Lowrys musichall where Marie Kendall, charming soubrette, smiled on them 
from a poster a dauby smile. 

Going down the path of Sycamore street beside the Empire musichall Lenehan showed M'Coy how 
the whole thing was. One of those manholes like a bloody gaspipe and there was the poor devil stuck 
down in it, half choked with sewer gas. Down went Tom Rochford anyhow, hooky's vest and all, with 
the rope round him And be damned but he got the rope round the poor devil and the two were 
hauled up. 

— The act of a hero, he said. 

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At the Dolphin they halted to allow the ambulance car to gallop past them for Jervis street. 

— This way, he said, walking to the right. I want to pop into Lynam's to see Sceptre's starting price. 
What's the time by your gold watch and chain? 

M'Coy peered into Marcus Tertius Moses' sombre office, then at O'Neill's clock. 

— After three, he said. Who's riding her? 

— O. Madden, Lenehan said. And a game filly she is. 

While he waited in Temple bar M'Coy dodged a banana peel with gentle pushes of his toe from the 
path to the gutter. Fellow might damn easy get a nasty fall there coming along tight in the dark. 

The gates of the drive opened wide to give egress to the viceregal cavalcade. 

— Even money, Lenehan said returning. I knocked against Bantam Lyons in there going to back a 
bloody horse someone gave him that hasn't an earthly. Through here. 

They went up the steps and under Merchants' arch A darkbacked figure scanned books on the 
hawker's cart. 

— There he is, Lenehan said. 

— Wonder what he's buying, M'Coy said, glancing behind. 

— Leopoldo or the Bloom is on the Rye, Lenehan said. 

— He's dead nuts on sales, M'Coy said. I was with him one day and he bought a book from an old 
one in Liffey street for two bob. There were fine plates in it worth double the money, the stars and the 
moon and comets with long tails. Astronomy it was about. 

Lenehan laughed. 

— I'll tell you a damn good one about comets' tails, he said. Come over in the sun. 

They crossed to the metal bridge and went along Wellington quay by the riverwalL 

Master Patrick Aloysius Dignamcame out of Mangan's, late Fehrenbach's, carrying a pound and a 
half of porksteaks. 

— There was a long spread out at Glencree reformatory, Lenehan said eagerly. The annual dinner, 
you know. Boiled shirt affair. The lord mayor was there, Val Dillon it was, and sir Charles Cameron 
and Dan Dawson spoke and there was music. Bartell d'Arcy sang and Benjamin Do Hard... 

— I know, M'Coy broke in. My missus sang there once. 

— Did she? Lenehan said. 

A card Unfurnished Apartments reappeared on the windowsash of number 7 Eccles street. 

He checked his tale a moment but broke out in a wheezy laugh. 

— But wait till I tell you, he said. Delahunt of Camden street had the catering and yours truly was 
chief bottlewasher. Bloom and the wife were there. Lashings of stuff we put up: port wine and sherry 
and curacao to which we did ample justice. Fast and furious it was. After liquids came solids. Cold 
joints galore and mince pies... 

— I know, M'Coy said. The year the missus was there... 

Lenehan linked his arm warmly. 

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— But wait till I tell you, he said. We had a midnight lunch too after all the jollification and when we 
sallied forth it was blue o'clock the morning after the night before. Coming home it was a gorgeous 
winter's night on the Featherbed Mountain. Bloom and Chris Callinan were on one side of the car and 
I was with the wife on the other. We started singing glees and duets: Lo, the early beam of morning. 
She was well primed with a good load of Delahunt's port under her beftyband. Every jolt the bloody 
car gave I had her bumping up against me. Hell's delights! She has a fine pair, God bless her. Like 
that. 

He held his caved hands a cubit from him, frowning: 

— I was tucking the rug under her and settling her boa all the time. Know what I mean? 

His hands moulded ample curves of air. He shut his eyes tight in delight, his body shrinking, and 
blew a sweet chirp from his lips. 

— The lad stood to attention anyhow, he said with a sigh. She's a gamey mare and no mistake. 
Bloom was pointing out all the stars and the comets in the heavens to Chris Callinan and the jarvey: the 
great bear and Hercules and the dragon, and the whole jingbang lot. But, by God, I was lost, so to 
speak, in the milky way. He knows them aft, faith At last she spotted a weeny weeshy one miles 
away. And what star is that, Poldy? says she. By God, she had Bloom cornered. That one, is it? 
says Chris Callinan, sure that's only what you might call a pinprick. By God, he wasn't far wide of 
the mark. 

Lenehan stopped and leaned on the riverwaft panting with soft laughter. 

— I'm weak, he gasped. 

M'Coy's white face smiled about it at instants and grew grave. Lenehan walked on again. He lifted 
his yachtingcap and scratched his hindhead rapidly. He glanced sideways in the sunlight at M'Coy. 

— He's a cultured allroundman, Bloom is, he said seriously. He's not one of your common or 
garden... you know... There's a touch of the artist about old Bloom 



Mr Bloom turned over idly pages of The Awful Disclosures of Maria Monk, then of Aristotle's 
Masterpiece. Crooked botched print. Plates: infants cuddled in a ball in bloodred wombs like livers of 
slaughtered cows. Lots of them like that at this moment all over the world. All butting with their skulls 
to get out of it. Child bom every minute somewhere. Mrs Purefoy. 

He laid both books aside and glanced at the third: Tales of the Ghetto by Leopold von Sacher 
Masoch 

— That I had, he said, pushing it by. 

The shopman let two volumes fall on the counter. 

— Them are two good ones, he said. 

Onions of his breath came across the counter out of his ruined mouth. He bent to make a bundle of 
the other books, hugged them against his unbuttoned waistcoat and bore them off behind the dingy 
curtain. 

On O'Connell bridge many persons observed the grave deportment and gay apparel of Mr Denis J 
Maginni, professor of dancing &c. 

Mr Bloom, alone, looked at the titles. Fair Tyrants by James Lovebirch Know the kind that is. 
Had it? Yes. 

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He opened it. Thought so. 

A woman's voice behind the dingy curtain. Listen: the man. 

No: she wouldn't like that much. Got her it once. 

He read the other title: Sweets of Sin, More in her line. Let us see. 

He read where his finger opened. 

— All the dollarbills her husband gave her were spent in the stores on wondrous gowns and 
costliest frillies. For him! For raoull 

Yes. This. Here. Try. 

— Her mouth glued on his in a luscious voluptuous kiss while his hands felt for the opulent 
curves inside her deshabille. 

Yes. Take this. The end. 

— You are late, he spoke hoarsely, eying her with a suspicious glare. The beautiful woman 
threw off her sabletrimmed wrap, displaying her queenly shoulders and heaving embonpoint. 
An imperceptible smile played round her perfect lips as she turned to him calmly. 

Mr Bloom read again: The beautiful woman. 

Warmth showered gentry over him, cowing his flesh. Flesh yielded amply amid rumpled clothes: 
whites of eyes swooning up. His nostrils arched themselves for prey. Melting breast ointments (for 
Him! For Raoulf). Armpits' oniony sweat. Fishgfuey slime (her heaving embonpoint!). Feel! Press! 
Crushed! Sulphur dung of lions! 

Young! Young! 

An elderly female, no more young, left the building of the courts of chancery, king's bench, 
exchequer and common pleas, having heard in the lord chancellor's court the case in lunacy of 
Potterton, in the admiralty division the summons, exparte motion, of the owners of the Lady Cairns 
versus the owners of the barque Mona, in the court of appeal reservation of judgment in the case of 
Harvey versus the Ocean Accident and Guarantee Corporation 

Phlegmy coughs shook the air of the bookshop, bulging out the dingy curtains. The shopman's 
uncombed grey head came out and his unshaven reddened face, coughing. He raked his throat rudely, 
puked phlegm on the floor. He put his boot on what he had spat, wiping his sole along it, and bent, 
showing a rawskinned crown, scantily haired. 

Mr Bloom beheld it. 

Mastering his troubled breath he said: 

— I'll take this one. 

The shopman lifted eyes bleared with old rheum 

— Sweets of Sin, he said, tapping on it. That's a good one. 



The lacquey by the door of Dillon's auctionrooms shook his handbell twice again and viewed 
himself in the chalked mirror of the cabinet. 

Dilry Dedalus, loitering by the curbstone, heard the beats of the bell, the cries of the auctioneer 
within Four and nine. Those lovely curtains. Five shillings. Cosy curtains. Selling new at two guineas. 

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Any advance on five shillings? Going for five shillings. 

The lacquey lifted his handbell and shook it: 

— Barang! 

Bang of the lastlap bell spurred the halftnile wheelmen to their sprint. J. A. Jackson, W. E. Wylie, 
A. Munro and H. T. Gahan, their stretched necks wagging, negotiated the curve by the College 
library. 

Mr Dedakis, tugging a long moustache, came round from Williams's row. He halted near his 
daughter. 

— It's time for you, she said. 

— Stand up straight for the love of the lord Jesus, Mr Dedakis said. Are you trying to imitate your 
uncle John, the cornetplayer, head upon shoulder? Melancholy God! 

Dilry shrugged her shoulders. Mr Dedakis placed his hands on them and held them back. 

— Stand up straight, girl, he said. You'll get curvature of the spine. Do you know what you look 
like? 

He let his head sink suddenly down and forward, hunching his shoulders and dropping his 
underjaw. 

— Give it up, father, Dilry said. All the people are looking at you. 

Mr Dedakis drew himself upright and tugged again at his moustache. 

— Did you get any money? Dilry asked. 

— Where would I get money? Mr Dedakis said. There is no- one in Dublin would lend me 
fourpence. 

— You got some, Dilry said, looking in his eyes. 

— How do you know that? Mr Dedakis asked, his tongue in his cheek. 

Mr Kernan, pleased with the order he had booked, walked boldly along James's street. 

— I know you did, Dilry answered. Were you in the Scotch house now? 

— I was not, then, Mr Dedakis said, smiling. Was it the little nuns taught you to be so saucy? Here. 

He handed her a shilling 

— See if you can do anything with that, he said. 

— I suppose you got five, Dilfy said. Give me more than that. 

— Wait awhile, Mr Dedakis said threateningly. You're like the rest of them, are you? An insolent 
pack of little bitches since your poor mother died. But wait awhile. You'll all get a short shrift and a 
long day from me. Low blackguardism! I'm going to get rid of you Wouldn't care if I was stretched 
out stiff He's dead. The man upstairs is dead. 

He left her and walked on. Dilry followed quickly and pulled his coat. 

— Well, what is it? he said, stopping. 

The lacquey rang his bell behind their backs. 

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— Barang! 

— Curse your bloody blatant soul, Mr Dedalus cried, turning on him. 

The lacquey, aware of comment, shook the lolling clapper of his bell but feebly: 

— Bang! 

Mr Dedalus stared at him 

— Watch him, he said. It's instructive. I wonder will he allow us to talk. 

— You got more than that, father, Dilfy said. 

— I'm going to show you a little trick, Mr Dedalus said. I'll leave you all where Jesus left the jews. 
Look, there's all have. I got two shillings from Jack Power and I spent twopence for a shave for the 
funeraL 

He drew forth a handful of copper coins, nervously. 

— Can't you look for some money somewhere? Dilfy said. 

Mr Dedalus thought and nodded. 

— I will, he said gravely. I looked all along the gutter in O'Connell street. I'll try this one now. 

— You're very funny, Dilfy said, grinning. 

— Here, Mr Dedalus said, handing her two pennies. Get a glass of milk for yourself and a bun or a 
something. I'll be home shortly. 

He put the other coins in his pocket and started to walk on. 

The viceregal cavalcade passed, greeted by obsequious policemen, out ofParkgate. 

— I'm sure you have another shilling, Dilfy said. 

The lacquey banged loudly. 

Mr Dedalus amid the din walked off, murmuring to himself with a pursing mincing mouth gently: 

— The little nuns! Nice little things! O, sure they wouldn't do anything! O, sure they wouldn't really! 
Is it little sister Monica! 



From the sundial towards James's gate walked Mr Kernan, pleased with the order he had booked 
for Pulbrook Robertson, boldly along James's street, past Shackleton's offices. Got round him all right. 
How do you do, Mr Crimmins? First rate, sir. I was afraid you might be up in your other establishment 
in Pimlico. How are things going? Just keeping alive. Lovely weather we're having. Yes, indeed. Good 
for the country. Those farmers are always grumbling. I'll just take a thimbleful of your best gin, Mr 
Crimmins. A small gin, sir. Yes, sir. Terrible affair that General Slocum explosion. Terrible, terrible! A 
thousand casualties. And heartrending scenes. Men trampling down women and children. Most brutal 
thing. What do they say was the cause? Spontaneous combustion. Most scandalous revelation Not a 
single lifeboat would float and the firehose all burst. What I can't understand is how the inspectors ever 
allowed a boat like that... Now, you're talking straight, Mr Crimmins. You know why? Palm oil. Is 
that a fact? Without a doubt. Well now, look at that. And America they say is the land of the free. I 
thought we were bad here. 

I smiled at him America, I said quietly, just like that. What is it? The sweepings of every country 
including our own. Isn't that true? That's a fact. 

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Graft, my dear sir. Well, of course, where there's money going there's always someone to pick it 
up. 

Saw him looking at my frockcoat. Dress does it. Nothing like a dressy appearance. Bowls them 
over. 

— Hello, Simon, Father Cowley said. How are things? 

— Hello, Bob, old man, Mr Dedahis answered, stopping. 

Mr Kernan halted and preened himself before the sloping mirror of Peter Kennedy, hairdresser. 
Stylish coat, beyond a doubt. Scott of Dawson street. Well worth the half sovereign I gave Neary for 
it. Never built under three guineas. Fits me down to the ground. Some Kildare street club toff had it 
probably. John Mulligan, the manager of the Hibernian bank, gave me a very sharp eye yesterday on 
Carlisle bridge as if he remembered me. 

Aham! Must dress the character for those fellows. Knight of the road. Gentleman And now, Mr 
Crimmins, may we have the honour of your custom again, sir. The cup that cheers but not inebriates, 
as the old saying has it. 

North wall and sir John Rogerson's quay, with hulls and anchorchains, sailing westward, sailed by a 
skiff, a crumpled throwaway, rocked on the ferrywash, Elijah is coming. 

Mr Kernan glanced in farewell at his image. High colour, of course. Grizzled moustache. Returned 
Indian officer. Bravely he bore his stumpy body forward on spatted feet, squaring his shoulders. Is that 
Ned Lambert's brother over the way, Sam? What? Yes. He's as like it as damn it. No. The 
windscreen of that motorcar in the sun there. Just a flash like that. Damn like him 

Aham! Hot spirit of juniper juice warmed his vitals and his breath. Good drop of gin, that was. His 
frocktails winked in bright sunshine to his fat strut. 

Down there Emmet was hanged, drawn and quartered. Greasy black rope. Dogs licking the blood 
off the street when the lord lieutenant's wife drove by in her noddy. 

Bad times those were. Well, well Over and done with. Great topers too. Fourbottle men. 

Let me see. Is he buried in saint Michan's? Or no, there was a midnight burial in Glasnevin. Corpse 
brought in through a secret door in the waft Dignam is there now. Went out in a puff Well, well 
Better turn down here. Make a detour. 

Mr Kernan turned and walked down the slope of Watling street by the corner of Guinness's 
visitors' waitingroom Outside the Dublin Distillers Company's stores an outside car without fare or 
jarvey stood, the reins knotted to the wheel Damn dangerous thing. Some Tipperary bosthoon 
endangering the lives of the citizens. Runaway horse. 

Denis Breen with his tomes, weary of having waited an hour in John Henry Menton's office, led his 
wife over O'Connell bridge, bound for the office of Messrs Collis and Ward. 

Mr Kernan approached Island street. 

Times of the troubles. Must ask Ned Lambert to lend me those reminiscences of sir Jonah 
Barrington When you look back on it all now in a kind of retrospective arrangement. Gaming at 
Daly's. No cardsharping then. One of those fellows got his hand nailed to the table by a dagger. 
Somewhere here lord Edward Fitzgerald escaped from major Sirr. Stables behind Moira house. 

Damn good gin that was. 

Fine dashing young nobleman Good stock, of course. That ruffian, that sham squire, with his violet 

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gloves gave him away. Course they were on the wrong side. They rose in dark and evil days. Fine 
poem that is: Ingram They were gentlemen Ben Dolkrd does sing that ballad touchingry. Masterly 
rendition 

At the siege of Ross did my father fall. 

A cavalcade in easy trot along Pembroke quay passed, outriders leaping, leaping in their, in their 
saddles. Frockcoats. Cream sunshades. 

Mr Kernan hurried forward, blowing pursiry. 

His Excellency! Too bad! Just missed that by a hair. Damn it! What a pity! 



Stephen Dedalus watched through the webbed window the lapidary's fingers prove a timedulled 
chain Dust webbed the window and the showtrays. Dust darkened the toiling fingers with their vulture 
nails. Dust slept on dull coils of bronze and silver, lozenges of cinnabar, on rubies, leprous and 
winedark stones. 

Born all in the dark wormy earth, cold specks of fire, evil, lights shining in the darkness. Where 
fallen archangels flung the stars of their brows. Muddy swinesnouts, hands, root and root, gripe and 
wrest them 

She dances in a foul gloom where gum bums with garlic. A sailorman, rustbearded, sips from a 
beaker rum and eyes her. A long and seafed silent rut. She dances, capers, wagging her sowish 
haunches and her hips, on her gross belly flapping a ruby egg. 

Old Russell with a smeared shammy rag burnished again his gem, turned it and held it at the point of 
his Moses' beard. Grandfather ape gloating on a stolen hoard. 

And you who wrest old images from the burial earth? The brainsick words of sophists: Antisthenes. 
A lore of drugs. Orient and immortal wheat standing from everlasting to everlasting. 

Two old women fresh from their whiff of the briny trudged through Irishtown along London bridge 
road, one with a sanded tired umbrella, one with a midwife's bag in which eleven cockles rolled. 

The whirr of flapping leathern bands and hum of dynamos from the powerhouse urged Stephen to 
be on Beingless beings. Stop! Throb always without you and the throb always within. Your heart you 
sing of I between them. Where? Between two roaring worlds where they swirl, I. Shatter them, one 
and both But stun myself too in the blow. Shatter me you who can. Bawd and butcher were the 
words. I say! Not yet awhile. A look around. 

Yes, quite true. Very large and wonderful and keeps famous time. You say right, sir. A Monday 
morning, 'twas so, indeed. 

Stephen went down Bedford row, the handle of the ash clacking against his shoulderblade. In 
Clohisseys window a faded 1860 print of Heenan boxing Sayers held his eye. Staring backers with 
square hats stood round the roped prizering The heavyweights in tight loincloths proposed gentry each 
to other his bulbous fists. And they are throbbing: heroes' hearts. 

He turned and halted by the slanted bookcart. 

— Twopence each, the huckster said. Four for sixpence. 

Tattered pages. The Irish Beekeeper. Life and Miracles of the Cure of Ars. Pocket Guide to 
Killarney. 

I might find here one of my pawned schoolprizes. Stephano Dedalo, alumno optimo, palmam 

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ferenti. 

Father Conmee, having read his little hours, walked through the hamlet of Donnycarney, murmuring 
vespers. 

Binding too good probably. What is this? Eighth and ninth book of Moses. Secret of all secrets. 
Seal of King David. Thumbed pages: read and read. Who has passed here before me? How to soften 
chapped hands. Recipe for white wine vinegar. How to win a woman's love. For me this. Say the 
following talisman three times with hands folded: 

— Se elyilo nebrakada femininum! Amor me solo! Sanktus! Amen. 

Who wrote this? Charms and invocations of the most blessed abbot Peter Salanka to all true 
believers divulged. As good as any other abbot's charms, as mumbling Joachim's. Down, baldynoddle, 
or we'll wool your wool. 

— What are you doing here, Stephen? 

Dilry's high shoulders and shabby dress. 

Shut the book quick. Don't let see. 

— What are you doing? Stephen said. 

A Stuart face of nonesuch Charles, lank locks falling at its sides. It glowed as she crouched feeding 
the fire with broken boots. I told her of Paris. Late lieabed under a quilt of old overcoats, fingering a 
pinchbeck bracelet, Dan Kelly's token. Nebrakada femininum. 

— What have you there? Stephen asked. 

— I bought it from the other cart for a penny, Dilfy said, laughing nervously. Is it any good? 

My eyes they say she has. Do others see me so? Quick, far and daring. Shadow of my mind. 

He took the coverless book from her hand. Chardenal's French primer. 

— What did you buy that for? he asked. To learn French? 

She nodded, reddening and closing tight her lips. 

Show no surprise. Quite naturaL 

— Here, Stephen said. It's all right. Mind Maggy doesn't pawn it on you. I suppose all my books 
are gone. 

— Some, Difry said. We had to. 

She is drowning. Agenbite. Save her. Agenbite. All against us. She will drown me with her, eyes 
and hair. Lank coils of seaweed hair around me, my heart, my souL Salt green death. 

We. 

Agenbite of inwit. Inwit's agenbite. 

Misery! Misery! 



— Hello, Simon, Father Cowley said. How are things? 

— Hello, Bob, old man, Mr Dedahis answered, stopping. 

They clasped hands loudly outside Reddy and Daughter's. Father Cowley brushed his moustache 

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often downward with a scooping hand. 

— What's the best news? Mr Dedahis said. 

— Why then not much, Father Cowley said. I'm barricaded up, Simon, with two men prowling 
around the house trying to effect an entrance. 

— Jolly, Mr Dedahis said. Who is it? 

— O, Father Cowley said. A certain gombeen man of our acquaintance. 

— With a broken back, is it? Mr Dedahis asked. 

— The same, Simon, Father Cowley answered. Reuben of that ik. I'm just waiting for Ben Dolkrd. 
He's going to say a word to long John to get him to take those two men off All I want is a little time. 

He looked with vague hope up and down the quay, a big apple bulging in his neck. 

— I know, Mr Dedahis said, nodding. Poor old bockedy Ben! He's always doing a good turn for 
someone. Hold hard! 

He put on his glasses and gazed towards the metal bridge an instant. 

— There he is, by God, he said, arse and pockets. 

Ben Dollard's loose blue cutaway and square hat above large slops crossed the quay in full gait 
from the metal bridge. He came towards them at an amble, scratching actively behind his coattails. 

As he came near Mr Dedahis greeted: 

— Hold that fellow with the bad trousers. 

— Hold him now, Ben Dolkrd said. 

Mr Dedahis eyed with cold wandering scorn various points of Ben Dollard's figure. Then, turning to 
Father Cowley with a nod, he muttered sneeringry: 

— That's a pretty garment, isn't it, for a summer's day? 

— Why, God eternally curse your soul Ben Dollard growled furiously, I threw out more clothes in 
my time than you ever saw. 

He stood beside them beaming, on them first and on his roomy clothes from points of which Mr 
Dedahis flicked fluff, saying: 

— They were made for a man in his health Ben, anyhow. 

— Bad hick to the jewman that made them, Ben Dollard said. Thanks be to God he's not paid yet. 

— And how is that basso prof ondo, Benjamin? Father Cowley asked. 

Cashel Boyle O'Connor Fitzmaurice Tisdall FarrelL murmuring, glassyeyed, strode past the Kildare 
street club. 

Ben Dollard frowned and, making suddenly a chanter's mouth, gave forth a deep note. 

— Aw! he said. 

— That's the style, Mr Dedahis said, nodding to its drone. 

—What about that? Ben Dollard said. Not too dusty? What? 

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He turned to both. 

— That'll do, Father Cowley said, nodding also. 

The reverend Hugh C. Love walked from the old chapterhouse of saint Mary's abbey past James 
and Charles Kennedy's, rectifiers, attended by Geraldines tall and personable, towards the Tholsel 
beyond the ford of hurdles. 

Ben Do Hard with a heavy list towards the shopfronts led them forward, his joyful fingers in the air. 

— Come along with me to the subsheriff s office, he said. I want to show you the new beauty Rock 
has for a bailiff He's a cross between Lobengula and Lynchehaun. He's well worth seeing, mind you. 
Come along. I saw John Henry Menton casualty in the Bodega just now and it will cost me a fall if I 
don't... Wait awhile... We're on the right lay, Bob, believe you me. 

— For a few days tell him, Father Cowley said anxiously. 

Ben Dollard halted and stared, his loud orifice open, a dangling button of his coat wagging 
brightbacked from its thread as he wiped away the heavy shraums that clogged his eyes to hear aright. 

— What few days? he boomed. Hasn't your landlord distrained for rent? 

— He has, Father Cowley said. 

— Then our friend's writ is not worth the paper it's printed on, Ben Dollard said. The landlord has 
the prior claim I gave him all the particulars. 29 Windsor avenue. Love is the name? 

— That's right, Father Cowley said. The reverend Mr Love. He's a minister in the country 
somewhere. But are you sure of that? 

— You can tell Barabbas from me, Ben Dollard said, that he can put that writ where Jacko put the 
nuts. 

He led Father Cowley boldly forward, linked to his bulk. 

— Filberts I believe they were, Mr Dedalus said, as he dropped his glasses on his coatfront, 
following them 



— The youngster will be all right, Martin Cunningham said, as they passed out of the Castleyard 
gate. 

The policeman touched his forehead. 

— God bless you, Martin Cunningham said, cheerily. 

He signed to the waiting jarvey who chucked at the reins and set on towards Lord Edward street. 

Bronze by gold, Miss Kennedy's head by Miss Douce's head, appeared above the crossblind of 
the Ormond hotel. 

— Yes, Martin Cunningham said, fingering his beard. I wrote to Father Conmee and laid the whole 
case before him 

— You could try our friend, Mr Power suggested backward. 

— Boyd? Martin Cunningham said shortly. Touch me not. 

John Wyse Nolan, lagging behind, reading the list, came after them quickly down Cork hill. 

On the steps of the City hall Councillor Nannetti, descending, hailed Alderman Cowley and 

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Councillor Abraham Lyon ascending. 

The castle car wheeled empty into upper Exchange street. 

— Look here, Martin, John Wyse Nolan said, overtaking them at the Mail office. I see Bloom put 
his name down for five shillings. 

— Quite right, Martin Cunningham said, taking the list. And put down the five shillings too. 

— Without a second word either, Mr Power said. 

— Strange but true, Martin Cunningham added. 

John Wyse Nolan opened wide eyes. 

— I'll say there is much kindness in the jew, he quoted, elegantly. 

They went down Parliament street. 

— There's Jimmy Henry, Mr Power said, just heading for Kavanagh's. 

— Righto, Martin Cunningham said. Here goes. 

Outside la Maison Claire Blazes Boykn waylaid Jack Mooney's brother-in-law, humpy, tight, 
making for the liberties. 

John Wyse Nolan fell back with Mr Power, while Martin Cunningham took the elbow of a dapper 
little man in a shower of hail suit, who walked uncertainly, with hasty steps past Micky Anderson's 
watches. 

— The assistant town clerk's corns are giving him some trouble, John Wyse Nolan told Mr Power. 

They followed round the corner towards James Kavanagh's winerooms. The empty castle car 
fronted them at rest in Essex gate. Martin Cunningham, speaking always, showed often the list at 
which Jimmy Henry did not glance. 

— And long John Fanning is here too, John Wyse Nolan said, as large as life. 

The tall form of long John Fanning filled the doorway where he stood. 

— Good day, Mr Subsheriff, Martin Cunningham said, as all halted and greeted. 

Long John Fanning made no way for them He removed his large Henry Clay decisively and his 
large fierce eyes scowled intelligently over all their faces. 

— Are the conscript fathers pursuing their peaceful deliberations? he said with rich acrid utterance 
to the assistant town clerk. 

Hell open to christians they were having, Jimmy Henry said pettishly, about their damned Irish 
language. Where was the marshal, he wanted to know, to keep order in the council chamber. And old 
Barlow the macebearer laid up with asthma, no mace on the table, nothing in order, no quorum even, 
and Hutchinson, the lord mayor, in Llandudno and little Lorcan Sherlock doing locum tenens for him 
Damned Irish language, language of our forefathers. 

Long John Fanning blew a plume of smoke from his lips. 

Martin Cunningham spoke by turns, twirling the peak of his beard, to the assistant town clerk and 
the subsheriff, while John Wyse Nolan held his peace. 

— What Dignam was that? long John Fanning asked. 

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Jimmy Henry made a grimace and lifted his left foot. 

— 0, my corns! he said plaintively. Come upstairs for goodness' sake till I sit down somewhere. 
Uffi Ooo! Mind! 

Testify he made room for himself beside long John Farming's flank and passed in and up the stairs. 

— Come on up, Martin Cunningham said to the subsheriff I don't think you knew him or perhaps 
you did, though. 

With John Wyse Nolan Mr Power followed them in. 

— Decent little soul he was, Mr Power said to the stalwart back of long John Fanning ascending 
towards long John Fanning in the mirror. 

— Rather lowsized. Dignam of Menton's office that was, Martin Cunningham said. 

Long John Fanning could not remember him 

Clatter ofhorsehoofs sounded from the air. 

— What's that? Martin Cunningham said. 

All turned where they stood. John Wyse Nolan came down again. From the cool shadow of the 
doorway he saw the horses pass Parliament street, harness and glossy pasterns in sunlight shimmering. 
Gaily they went past before his cool unfriendly eyes, not quickly. In saddles of the leaders, leaping 
leaders, rode outriders. 

— What was it? Martin Cunningham asked, as they went on up the staircase. 

— The lord lieutenantgeneral and general governor of Ireland, John Wyse Nolan answered from the 
stairfoot. 



As they trod across the thick carpet Buck Mulligan whispered behind his Panama to Haines: 

— ParnelTs brother. There in the corner. 

They chose a small table near the window, opposite a longfaced man whose beard and gaze hung 
intently down on a chessboard. 

— Is that he? Haines asked, twisting round in his seat. 

— Yes, Mulligan said. That's John Howard, his brother, our city marshaL 

John Howard Parnell translated a white bishop quietly and his grey claw went up again to his 
forehead whereat it rested. An instant after, under its screen, his eyes looked quickly, ghostbright, at 
his foe and fell once more upon a working corner. 

— I'll take a melange, Haines said to the waitress. 

— Two melanges, Buck Mulligan said. And bring us some scones and butter and some cakes as 
well 

When she had gone he said, laughing: 

— We call it D.B.C. because they have damn bad cakes. O, butyoumissed Dedahis onHamlet. 

Haines opened his newbought book. 

— I'm sorry, he said. Shakespeare is the happy huntingground of all minds that have lost their 

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balance. 

The one legged sailor growled at the area of 14 Nelson street: 

— England expects... 

Buck Mulligan's primrose waistcoat shook gaily to his laughter. 

— You should see him, he said, when his body loses its balance. Wandering Aengus I call him 

— I am sure he has an idee fixe, Haines said, pinching his chin thoughtfully with thumb and 
forefinger. Now I am speculating what it would be likely to be. Such persons always have. 

Buck Mulligan bent across the table gravely. 

— They drove his wits astray, he said, by visions of hell He will never capture the Attic note. The 
note of Swinburne, of all poets, the white death and the ruddy birth That is his tragedy. He can never 
be a poet. The joy of creation... 

— Eternal punishment, Haines said, nodding curtly. I see. I tackled him this morning on belief There 
was something on his mind, I saw. It's rather interesting because professor Pokorny of Vienna makes 
an interesting point out of that. 

Buck Mulligan's watchful eyes saw the waitress come. He helped her to unload her tray. 

— He can find no trace of hell in ancient Irish myth, Haines said, amid the cheerful cups. The moral 
idea seems lacking, the sense of destiny, of retribution Rather strange he should have just that fixed 
idea. Does he write anything for your movement? 

He sank two Limps of sugar deftly longwise through the whipped cream Buck Mulligan slit a 
steaming scone in two and plastered butter over its smoking pith He bit off a soft piece hungrily. 

— Ten years, he said, chewing and laughing. He is going to write something in ten years. 

— Seems a long way off, Haines said, thoughtfully lifting his spoon. Still, I shouldn't wonder if he did 
after a! 

He tasted a spoonftil from the creamy cone of his cup. 

— This is real Irish cream I take it, he said with forbearance. I don't want to be imposed on. 

Elijah, skiff, light crumpled throwaway, sailed eastward by flanks of ships and trawlers, amid an 
archipelago of corks, beyond new Wapping street past Benson's ferry, and by the threemasted 
schooner Rosevean from Bridgwater with bricks. 



Aknidano Artifoni walked past Holies street, past Sewell's yard. Behind him Cashel Boyle 
O'Connor Fitzmaurice Tisdall Farrell, with stickumbrelladustcoat dangling, shunned the lamp before 
Mr Law Smith's house and, crossing, walked along Merrion square. Distantly behind him a blind 
stripling tapped his way by the wall of College park. 

Cashel Boyle O'Connor Fitzmaurice Tisdall Farrell walked as far as Mr Lewis Werner's cheerful 
windows, then turned and strode back along Merrion square, his stickumbrelladustcoat dangling. 

At the comer of Wilde's house he halted, frowned at Elijah's name announced on the Metropolitan 
hall, frowned at the distant pleasance of duke's lawn. His eyeglass flashed frowning in the sun. With 
ratsteeth bared he muttered: 

— Coactus volui. 

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He strode on for Clare street, grinding his fierce word. 

As he strode past Mr Bloom's dental windows the sway of his dustcoat brushed rudely from its 
angle a slender tapping cane and swept onwards, having buffeted a thewless body. The blind stripling 
turned his sickly face after the striding form 

— God's curse on you, he said sourly, whoever you are! You're blinder nor I am, you bitch's 
bastard! 



Opposite Ruggy O'Donohoe's Master Patrick Aloysius Dignam, pawing the pound and a half of 
Mangan's, late Fehrenbach's, porksteaks he had been sent for, went along warm Wicklow street 
dawdling. It was too blooming dull sitting in the parlour with Mrs Stoer and Mrs Quigley and Mrs 
MacDowell and the blind down and they all at their sniffles and sipping sups of the superior tawny 
sherry uncle Barney brought from Tunney's. And they eating crumbs of the cottage fruitcake, jawing 
the whole blooming time and sighing. 

After Wicklow lane the window of Madame Doyle, courtdress milliner, stopped him He stood 
looking in at the two puckers stripped to their pelts and putting up their props. From the sidemirrors 
two mourning Masters Dignam gaped silently. Myler Keogh, Dublin's pet lamb, will meet 
sergeantmajor Bennett, the Portobello bruiser, for a purse of fifty sovereigns. Gob, that'd be a good 
pucking match to see. Myler Keogh that's the chap sparring out to him with the green sash. Two bar 
entrance, soldiers half price. I could easy do a bunk on ma. Master Dignam on his left turned as he 
turned. That's me in mourning. When is it? May the twentysecond. Sure, the blooming thing is all over. 
He turned to the right and on his right Master Dignam turned, his cap awry, his collar sticking up. 
Buttoning it down, his chin lifted, he saw the image of Marie Kendall, charming soubrette, beside the 
two puckers. One of them mots that do be in the packets of fags Stoer smokes that his old fellow 
welted hell out of him for one time he found out. 

Master Dignam got his collar down and dawdled on. The best pucker going for strength was 
Fitzsimons. One puck in the wind from that fellow would knock you into the middle of next week, 
man. But the best pucker for science was Jem Corbet before Fitzsimons knocked the stuffings out of 
him, dodging and aft 

In Grafton street Master Dignam saw a red flower in a toffs mouth and a swell pair of kicks on him 
and he listening to what the drunk was telling him and grinning all the time. 

No Sandymount tram 

Master Dignam walked along Nassau street, shifted the porksteaks to his other hand. His collar 
sprang up again and he tugged it down. The blooming stud was too small for the buttonhole of the 
shirt, blooming end to it. He met schoolboys with satchels. I'm not going tomorrow either, stay away 
till Monday. He met other schoolboys. Do they notice I'm in mourning? Uncle Barney said he'd get it 
into the paper tonight. Then they'll all see it in the paper and read my name printed and pa's name. 

His face got all grey instead of being red like it was and there was a fly walking over it up to his eye. 
The scrunch that was when they were screwing the screws into the coffin: and the bumps when they 
were bringing it downstairs. 

Pa was inside it and ma crying in the parlour and uncle Barney telling the men how to get it round 
the bend. A big coffin it was, and high and heavylooking How was that? The last night pa was boosed 
he was standing on the landing there bawling out for his boots to go out to Tunney's for to boose more 
and he looked butty and short in his shirt. Never see him again. Death, that is. Pa is dead. My father is 
dead. He told me to be a good son to ma. I couldn't hear the other things he said but I saw his tongue 
and his teeth trying to say it better. Poor pa. That was Mr Dignam, my father. I hope he's in purgatory 
now because he went to confession to Father Conroy on Saturday night. 

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William Humble, earl of Dudley, and lady Dudley, accompanied by lieutenantcolonel Heseltine, 
drove out after luncheon from the viceregal lodge. In the following carriage were the honourable Mrs 
Paget, Miss de Courcy and the honourable Gerald Ward A.D.C. in attendance. 

The cavalcade passed out by the lower gate of Phoenix park saluted by obsequious policemen and 
proceeded past Kingsbridge along the northern quays. The viceroy was most cordially greeted on his 
way through the metropolis. At Bloody bridge Mr Thomas Keman beyond the river greeted him vainly 
from afar Between Queen's and Whitworth bridges lord Dudley's viceregal carriages passed and were 
unsaluted by Mr Dudley White, B. L., M. A., who stood on Arran quay outside Mrs M. E. White's, 
the pawnbroker's, at the corner of Arran street west stroking his nose with his forefinger, undecided 
whether he should arrive at Phibsborough more quickly by a triple change of tram or by hailing a car 
or on foot through Smithfleld, Constitution hill and Broadstone terminus. In the porch of Four Courts 
Richie Goulding with the costbag of Goulding, Collis and Ward saw him with surprise. Past Richmond 
bridge at the doorstep of the office of Reuben J Dodd, solicitor, agent for the Patriotic Insurance 
Company, an elderly female about to enter changed her plan and retracing her steps by King's 
windows smiled credulously on the representative of His Majesty. From its sluice in Wood quay wall 
under Tom Devan's office Poddle river hung out in fealty a tongue of liquid sewage. Above the 
crossblind of the Ormond hotel, gold by bronze, Miss Kennedy's head by Miss Douce's head 
watched and admired. On Ormond quay Mr Simon DedaLis, steering his way from the greenhouse for 
the subsheriffs office, stood still in midstreet and brought his hat low. His Excellency graciously 
returned Mr DedaLis' greeting. From Cahill's corner the reverend Hugh C. Love, M.A., made 
obeisance unperceived, mindful of lords deputies whose hands benignant had held of yore rich 
advowsons. On Grattan bridge Lenehan and M'Coy, taking leave of each other, watched the 
carriages go by. Passing by Roger Greene's office and Dollard's big red printinghouse Gerty 
MacDowell, carrying the Catesby's cork lino letters for her father who was laid up, knew by the style 
it was the lord and lady lieutenant but she couldn't see what Her Excellency had on because the tram 
and Spring's big yellow furniture van had to stop in front of her on account of its being the lord 
lieutenant. Beyond Lundy Foot's from the shaded door of Kavanagh's winerooms John Wyse Nolan 
smiled with unseen coldness towards the lord lieutenantgeneral and general governor of Ireland. The 
Right Honourable William Humble, earl of Dudley, G. C. V. O., passed Micky Anderson's all times 
ticking watches and Henry and James's wax smartsuited freshcheeked models, the gentleman Henry, 
dernier cri James. Over against Dame gate Tom Rochford and Nosey Ffynn watched the approach 
of the cavalcade. Tom Rochford, seeing the eyes of lady Dudley fixed on him, took his thumbs quickly 
out of the pockets of his claret waistcoat and doffed his cap to her. A charming soubrette, great 
Marie Kendall, with dauby cheeks and lifted skirt smiled daubiry from her poster upon William 
Humble, earl of Dudley, and upon lieutenantcolonel H. G. Heseltine, and also upon the honourable 
Gerald Ward A. D. C. From the window of the D. B. C. Buck Mulligan gaily, and Haines grave fy, 
gazed down on the viceregal equipage over the shoulders of eager guests, whose mass of forms 
darkened the chessboard whereon John Howard Parnell looked intently. In Fownes's street Dilry 
DedaLis, straining her sight upward from Chardenal's first French primer, saw sunshades spanned and 
wheelspokes spinning in the glare. John Henry Menton, filling the doorway of Commercial Buildings, 
stared from winebig oyster eyes, holding a fat gold hunter watch not looked at in his fat left hand not 
feeling it. Where the foreleg of King Billy's horse pawed the air Mrs Breen plucked her hastening 
husband back from under the hoofs of the outriders. She shouted in his ear the tidings. Understanding, 
he shifted his tomes to his left breast and saluted the second carriage. The honourable Gerald Ward 
A.D.C., agreeably surprised, made haste to reply. At Ponsonbys corner a jaded white flagon H. 
halted and four tallhatted white flagons halted behind him, E.L.Y'S, while outriders pranced past and 
carriages. Opposite Pigott's music warerooms Mr Denis J Maginni, professor of dancing &c, gaily 
apparelled, gravely walked, outpassed by a viceroy and unobserved. By the provost's wall came 
jauntily Blazes Boylan, stepping in tan shoes and socks with skybLie clocks to the refrain of My girl's 
a Yorkshire girl. 

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Blazes Boylan presented to the leaders' skyblue frontlets and high action a skyblue tie, a 
widebrimmed straw hat at a rakish angle and a suit of indigo serge. His hands in his jacket pockets 
forgot to salute but he offered to the three ladies the bold admiration of his eyes and the red flower 
between his lips. As they drove along Nassau street His Excellency drew the attention of his bowing 
consort to the programme of music which was being discoursed in College park. Unseen brazen 
highland laddies blared and drumthumped after the cortege: 

But though she's a factory lass 

And wears no fancy clothes. 

Baraabum. 

Yet I've a sort of a 

Yorkshire relish for 

My little Yorkshire rose. 

Baraabum. 

Thither of the wall the quartermile flat handicappers, M. C. Green, H. Shrift, T. M. Patey, C. 
Scaife, J. B. Jefls, G. N. Morphy, F. Stevenson, C. Adderfy and W. C. Huggard, started in pursuit. 
Striding past Finn's hotel Cashel Boyle O'Connor Fitzmaurice Tisdall Farrell stared through a fierce 
eyeglass across the carriages at the head of Mr M. E. Solomons in the window of the Austro- 
Hungarian viceconsulate. Deep in Leinster street by Trinity's postern a loyal king's man, Hornblower, 
touched his taftyho cap. As the glossy horses pranced by Merrion square Master Patrick Aloysius 
Dignam, waiting, saw salutes being given to the gent with the topper and raised also his new black cap 
with fingers greased by porksteak paper. His collar too sprang up. The viceroy, on his way to 
inaugurate the Mirus bazaar in aid of funds for Mercer's hospital, drove with his following towards 
Lower Mount street. He passed a blind stripling opposite Broadbent's. In Lower Mount street a 
pedestrian in a brown macintosh eating dry bread, passed swiftly and unscathed across the viceroy's 
path. At the Royal Canal bridge, from his hoarding, Mr Eugene Stratton, his blub lips agrin, bade all 
comers welcome to Pembroke township. At Haddington road corner two sanded women halted 
themselves, an umbrella and a bag in which eleven cockles rolled to view with wonder the lord mayor 
and lady mayoress without his golden chain On Northumberland and Lansdowne roads His 
Excellency acknowledged punctually salutes from rare male walkers, the salute of two small 
schoolboys at the garden gate of the house said to have been admired by the late queen when visiting 
the Irish capital with her husband, the prince consort, in 1849 and the salute of Almidano Artifoni's 
sturdy trousers swallowed by a closing door. 

Bronze by gold heard the hoofirons, steeryringing Imperthnthn thnthnthn. 

Chips, picking chips off rocky thumbnail, chips. 

Horrid! And gold flushed more. 

A husky fifenote blew. 

Blew. Blue bloom is on the. 

Goldpinnacled hair. 

A jumping rose on satiny breast of satin, rose of Castile. 

Trilling, trilling: Idolores. 

Peep! Who's in the... peepofgold? 

Tink cried to bronze in pity. 

And a call, pure, long and throbbing. Longindying call. 

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Decoy. Soft word. But look: the bright stars fade. Notes chirruping answer. 

rose! Castile. The morn is breaking. 
Jingle jingle jaunted jingling. 

Coin rang. Clock clacked. 

Avowal. Sonnez. I could. Rebound of garter. Not leave thee. Smack. La cloche! Thigh smack. 
Avowal. Warm Sweetheart, goodbye! 

Jingle. Bloo. 

Boomed crashing chords. When love absorbs. War! War! The tympanum 

A sail! A veil awave upon the waves. 

Lost. Throstle fluted. All is lost now. 

Horn. Hawhorn. 

When first he saw. Alas! 

Full tup. Full throb. 

Warbling. Ah, lure! Alluring. 

Martha! Come! 

Ckpclap. Clipclap. Clappyclap. 

Goodgod henev erheard inalL 

Deaf bald Pat brought pad knife took up. 

A moonlit nightcall: far, far. 

1 feel so sad. P. S. So lonely blooming. 
Listen! 

The spiked and winding cold seahorn Have you the? Each, and for other, plash and silent roar. 

Pearls: when she. Liszt's rhapsodies. Hissss. 

You don't? 

Did not: no, no: believe: Lidryd. With a cock with a carra. 

Black. Deepsounding Do, Ben, do. 

Wait while you wait. Hee hee. Wait while you hee. 

But wait! 

Low in dark middle earth. Embedded ore. 

Naminedamine. Preacher is he: 

All gone. All fallen 

Tiny, her tremulous fernfoils of maidenhair. 

Amen! He gnashed in fury. 

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Fro. To, fro. A baton cool protruding. 

Bronzerydia by Minagold. 

By bronze, by gold, in oceangreen of shadow. Bloom Old Bloom 

One rapped, one tapped, with a carra, with a cock. 

Pray for him! Pray, good people! 

His gouty fingers nakkering 

Big Benaben Big Benben 

Last rose Castile of summer left bloom I feel so sad alone. 

Pwee! Little wind piped wee. 

True men. Lid Ker Cow De and Doll Ay, ay. Like you men. Will lift your tschink with tschunk. 

FfflOo! 

Where bronze from anear? Where gold from afar? Where hoofs? 

Rrrpr. Kraa. Kraandl. 

Then not till then. My eppripfftaph Be pfrwritt. 

Done. 

Begin! 

Bronze by gold, miss Douce's head by miss Kennedy's head, over the crossblind of the Ormond 
bar heard the viceregal hoofs go by, ringing steel. 

— Is that her? asked miss Kennedy. 

Miss Douce said yes, sitting with his ex, pearl grey and eau de Nil. 

— Exquisite contrast, miss Kennedy said. 

When all agog miss Douce said eagerly: 

— Look at the fellow in the tall silk. 

— Who? Where? gold asked more eagerly. 

— In the second carriage, miss Douce's wet lips said, laughing in the sun. 

He's looking. Mind till I see. 

She darted, bronze, to the backmost comer, flattening her face against the pane in a halo of hurried 
breath. 

Her wet lips tittered: 

— He's killed looking back. 

She laughed: 

— O wept! Aren't men frightful idiots? 

With sadness. 

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Miss Kennedy sauntered sadly from bright light, twining a loose hair behind an ear. Sauntering 
sadly, gold no more, she twisted twined a hair. 

Sadly she twined in sauntering gold hair behind a curving ear. 

— It's them has the fine times, sadly then she said. 

A man. 

Bloowho went by by Moulang's pipes bearing in his breast the sweets of sin, by Wine's antiques, in 
memory bearing sweet sinful words, by Carroll's dusky battered plate, for Raoul. 

The boots to them, them in the bar, them barmaids came. For them unheeding him he banged on the 
counter his tray of chattering china. And 

— There's your teas, he said. 

Miss Kennedy with manners transposed the teatray down to an upturned lithia crate, safe from 
eyes, low. 

— What is it? loud boots unmannerly asked. 

— Find out, miss Douce retorted, leaving her spyingpoint. 

— Your beau, is it? 

A haughty bronze replied: 

— I'll complain to Mrs de Massey on you if I hear any more of your impertinent insolence. 

— Imperthnthn thnthnthn, bootssnout sniffed rudely, as he retreated as she threatened as he had 
come. 

Bloom 

On her flower frowning miss Douce said: 

— Most aggravating that young brat is. If he doesn't conduct himself I'll wring his ear for him a yard 
long. 

Ladylike in exquisite contrast. 

— Take no notice, miss Kennedy rejoined. 

She poured in a teacup tea, then back in the teapot tea. They cowered under their reef of counter, 
waiting on footstools, crates upturned, waiting for their teas to draw. They pawed their blouses, both 
of black satin, two and nine a yard, waiting for their teas to draw, and two and seven. 

Yes, bronze from anear, by gold from afar, heard steel from anear, hoofs ring from afar, and heard 
steelhoofs ringhoof ringsteeL 

— Am I awfully sunburnt? 

Miss bronze unbloused her neck. 

— No, said miss Kennedy. It gets brown after. Did you try the borax with the cherry laurel water? 

Miss Douce halfstood to see her skin askance in the barmirror gildedlettered where hock and claret 
glasses shimmered and in their midst a shell 

— And leave it to my hands, she said. 

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— Try it with the glycerine, miss Kennedy advised. 

Bidding her neck and hands adieu miss Douce 

— Those things only bring out a rash, replied, reseated. I asked that old fogey in Boyd's for 
something for my skin. 

Miss Kennedy, pouring now a Mdrawn tea, grimaced and prayed: 

— O, don't remind me of him for mercy' sake! 

— But wait till I tell you, miss Douce entreated. 

Sweet tea miss Kennedy having poured with milk plugged both two ears with little fingers. 

— No, don't, she cried. 

— I won't listen, she cried. 

But Bloom? 

Miss Douce grunted in snuffy fogey's tone: 

— For your what? says he. 

Miss Kennedy unplugged her ears to hear, to speak: but said, but prayed again: 

— Don't let me think of him or I'll expire. The hideous old wretch! That night in the Antient Concert 
Rooms. 

She sipped distastefully her brew, hot tea, a sip, sipped, sweet tea. 

— Here he was, miss Douce said, cocking her bronze head three quarters, ruffling her nosewings. 
Hufa! Hufa! 

Shrill shriek of laughter sprang from miss Kennedy's throat. Miss Douce huffed and snorted down 
her nostrils that quivered imperthnthn like a snout in quest. 

— O ! shrieking, miss Kennedy cried. Will you ever forget his goggle eye? 

Miss Douce chimed in in deep bronze laughter, shouting: 

— And your other eye! 

Bloowhose dark eye read Aaron Figatner's name. Why do I always think Figather? Gathering figs, 
I think. And Prosper Lore's huguenot name. By Bassi's blessed virgins Bloom's dark eyes went by. 
BLierobed, white under, come to me. God they believe she is: or goddess. Those today. I could not 
see. That fellow spoke. A student. After with Dedahis' son He might be Mulligan. All comely virgins. 
That brings those rakes of fellows in: her white. 

By went his eyes. The sweets of sin. Sweet are the sweets. 

Ofsin 

In a giggling peal young goldbronze voices blended, Douce with Kennedy your other eye. They 
threw young heads back, bronze gigglegold, to let freefty their laughter, screaming, your other, signals 
to each other, high piercing notes. 

Ah, panting, sighing, sighing, ah, fordone, their mirth died down. 

Miss Kennedy lipped her cup again, raised, drank a sip and gigglegiggled. Miss Douce, bending 

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over the teatray, ruffled again her nose and rolled droll fattened eyes. Again Kennygiggles, stooping, 
her fair pinnacles of hair, stooping, her tortoise napecomb showed, spluttered out of her mouth her 
tea, choking in tea and laughter, coughing with choking, crying: 

— O greasy eyes! Imagine being married to a man like that! she cried. With his bit of beard! 

Douce gave full vent to a splendid yell, a full yell of full woman, delight, joy, indignation. 

— Married to the greasy nose! she yelled. 

Shrill, with deep laughter, after, gold after bronze, they urged each each to peal after peal, ringing in 
changes, bronzegold, goldbronze, shrilldeep, to laughter after laughter. And then laughed more. 
Greasy I knows. Exhausted, breathless, their shaken heads they laid, braided and pinnacled by 
glossycombed, against the counterledge. All flushed (O!), panting, sweating (O!), all breathless. 

Married to Bloom, to greaseabloom. 

— O saints above! miss Douce said, sighed above her jumping rose. I wished 

I hadn't laughed so much. I feel all wet. 

— O, miss Douce! miss Kennedy protested. You horrid thing! 

And flushed yet more (you horrid!), more goldenry. 

By Cantwell's offices roved Greaseabloom, by Ceppi's virgins, bright of their oils. Nannetti's father 
hawked those things about, wheedling at doors as I. Religion pays. Must see him for that par. Eat first. 
I want. Not yet. At four, she said. Time ever passing. Clockhands turning. On Where eat? The 
Clarence, Dolphin. On. For RaouL Eat. If I net five guineas with those ads. The violet silk petticoats. 
Not yet. The sweets of sin. 

Flushed less, still less, goldenry paled. 

Into their bar strolled Mr Dedatus. Chips, picking chips off one of his rocky thumbnails. Chips. He 
strolled. 

— O, welcome back, miss Douce. 

He held her hand. Enjoyed her holidays? 

— Tiptop. 

He hoped she had nice weather in Rostrevor. 

— Gorgeous, she said. Look at the holy show I am Lying out on the strand all day. 

Bronze whiteness. 

— That was exceedingly naughty of you, Mr Dedalus told her and pressed her hand indulgently. 
Tempting poor simple males. 

Miss Douce of satin douced her arm away. 

— O go away! she said. You're very simple, I don't think. 

He was. 

— Well now I am, he mused. I looked so simple in the cradle they christened me simple Simon. 

— You must have been a doaty, miss Douce made answer. And what did the doctor order today? 

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— Well now, he mused, whatever you say yourself I think I'll trouble you for some fresh water and 
a half glass of whisky. 

Jingle. 

— With the greatest alacrity, miss Douce agreed. 

With grace of alacrity towards the mirror gilt Cantrell and Cochrane's she turned herself With grace 
she tapped a measure of gold whisky from her crystal keg. Forth from the skirt of his coat Mr Dedahis 
brought pouch and pipe. Alacrity she served. He blew through the frae two husky frfenotes. 

— By Jove, he mused, I often wanted to see the Mourne mountains. Must be a great tonic in the air 
down there. But a long threatening comes at last, they say. Yes. Yes. 

Yes. He fingered shreds of hair, her maidenhair, her mermaid's, into the bowl. Chips. Shreds. 
Musing. Mute. 

None nought said nothing. Yes. 

Gaily miss Douce polished a tumbler, trilling: 

— O, Idolores, queen of the eastern seas! 

— Was Mr Lidwell in today? 

In came Lenehan. Round him peered Lenehan Mr Bloom reached Essex bridge. Yes, Mr Bloom 
crossed bridge of Yessex. To Martha I must write. Buy paper. Daly's. Girl there civil Bloom. Old 
Bloom Blue bloom is on the rye. 

— He was in at Linchtime, miss Douce said. 

Lenehan came forward. 

— Was Mr Boylan looking for me? 

He asked. She answered: 

— Miss Kennedy, was Mr Boylan in while I was upstairs? 

She asked. Miss voice of Kennedy answered, a second teacup poised, her gaze upon a page: 

— No. He was not. 

Miss gaze of Kennedy, heard, not seen, read on. Lenehan round the sandwichbell wound his round 
body round. 

— Peep! Who's in the comer? 

No glance of Kennedy rewarding him he yet made overtures. To mind her stops. To read only the 
black ones: round o and crooked ess. 

Jingle j aunty j ingle . 

Girlgold she read and did not glance. Take no notice. She took no notice while he read by rote a 
solfa fable for her, pkppering flatly: 

— Ah fox met ah stork. Said thee fox too thee stork: Will you put your bill down inn my troath and 
pull upp ah bone? 

He droned in vain Miss Douce turned to her tea aside. 

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He sighed aside: 

— Ah me! O my! 

He greeted Mr Dedahis and got a nod. 

— Greetings from the famous son of a famous father. 

— Who may he be? Mr Dedahis asked. 

Lenehan opened most genial arms. Who? 

— Who may he be? he asked. Can you ask? Stephen, the youthful bard. 

Dry. 

Mr Dedahis, famous father, laid by his dry filled pipe. 

— I see, he said. I didn't recognise him for the moment. I hear he is keeping very select company. 
Have you seen him lately? 

He had. 

— I quaffed the nectarbowl with him this very day, said Lenehan. In Mooney's en ville and in 
Mooney's sur mer. He had received the rhino for the labour of his muse. 

He smiled at bronze's teabathed lips, at listening lips and eyes: 

— The elite of Erin hung upon his lips. The ponderous pundit, Hugh 

MacHugh, Dublin's most brilliant scribe and editor and that minstrel boy of the wild wet west who is 
known by the euphonious appellation of the O 'Madden Burke. 

After an interval Mr DedaLis raised his grog and 

— That must have been highly diverting, said he. I see. 

He see. He drank. With faraway mourning mountain eye. Set down his glass. 

He looked towards the saloon door. 

— I see you have moved the piano. 

— The tuner was in today, miss Douce replied, tuning it for the smoking concert and I never heard 
such an exquisite player. 

—Is that a fact? 

— Didn't he, miss Kennedy? The real classical, you know. And blind too, poor fellow. Not twenty 
I'm sure he was. 

— Is that a fact? Mr Dedahis said. 

He drank and strayed away. 

— So sad to look at his face, miss Douce condoled. 

God's curse on bitch's bastard. 

Tink to her pity cried a diner's bell To the door of the bar and diningroom came bald Pat, came 
bothered Pat, came Pat, waiter of Ormond. Lager for diner. Lager without alacrity she served. 

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With patience Lenehan waited for Boylan with impatience, for jinglejaunty blazes boy. 

Upholding the lid he (who?) gazed in the coffin (coffin?) at the oblique triple (piano!) wires. He 
pressed (the same who pressed indulgently her hand), soft pedalling, a triple of keys to see the 
thicknesses of felt advancing, to hear the muffled hammerfall in action. 

Two sheets cream vellum paper one reserve two envelopes when I was in Wisdom Hery's wise 
Bloom in Daly's Henry Flower bought. Are you not happy in your home? Flower to console me and a 
pin cuts lo. Means something, language of flow. Was it a daisy? Innocence that is. Respectable girl 
meet after mass. Thanks awfully muchly. Wise Bloom eyed on the door a poster, a swaying mermaid 
smoking mid nice waves. Smoke mermaids, coolest whiff of all Hair streaming: lovelorn For some 
man. For Raoul. He eyed and saw afar on Essex bridge a gay hat riding on a jaunting car. It is. Again. 
Third time. Coincidence. 

Jingling on supple rubbers it jaunted from the bridge to Ormond quay. Follow. Risk it. Go quick. At 
four. Near now. Out. 

— Twopence, sir, the shopgirl dared to say. 

— Aha... I was forgetting... Excuse... 

— And four. 

At four she. Winsomefy she on Bloohimwhom smiled. Bloo smi qui go. Ternoon Think you're the 
only pebble on the beach? Does that to all 

For men. 

In drowsy silence gold bent on her page. 

From the saloon a call came, long in dying. That was a tuningfork the tuner had that he forgot that 
he now struck. A call again. That he now poised that it now throbbed. You hear? It throbbed, pure, 
purer, softly and softlier, its buzzing prongs. Longer in dying call 

Pat paid for diner's popcorked bottle: and over tumbler, tray and popcorked bottle ere he went he 
whispered, bald and bothered, with miss 

Douce. 

— The bright stars fade... 

A voiceless song sang from within, singing: 

— ... the morn is breaking. 

A duodene of birdnotes chirruped bright treble answer under sensitive hands. Brightly the keys, all 
twinkling, linked, all harpsichording, called to a voice to sing the strain of dewy morn, of youth of 
love's leavetaking, life's, love's morn 

— The dewdrops pearl... 

Lenehan's lips over the counter lisped a low whistle of decoy. 

— But look this way, he said, rose of Castile. 

Jingle jaunted by the curb and stopped. 

She rose and closed her reading, rose of Castile: fretted, forlorn, dreamily rose. 

— Did she fall or was she pushed? he asked her. 

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She answered, slighting: 

— Ask no questions and you'll hear no lies. 

Like lady, ladylike. 

Blazes Boylan's smart tan shoes creaked on the barfloor where he strode. Yes, gold from anear by 
bronze from afar. Lenehan heard and knew and hailed him: 

— See the conquering hero comes. 

Between the car and window, warily walking, went Bloom, unconquered hero. See me he might. 
The seat he sat on: warm Black wary hecat walked towards Richie Goulding's legal bag, lifted aloft, 
saluting. 

— And I from thee... 

— I heard you were round, said Blazes Boylan. 

He touched to fair miss Kennedy a rim of his slanted straw. She smiled on him But sister bronze 
outsmiled her, preening for him her richer hair, a bosom and a rose. 

Smart Boylan bespoke potions. 

— What's your cry? Glass of bitter? Glass of bitter, please, and a sloegin for me. Wire in yet? 

Not yet. At four she. Who said four? 

Cowley's red fugs and bulging apple in the door of the sheriffs office. 

Avoid. Goulding a chance. What is he doing in the Ormond? Car waiting. 

Wait. 

Hello. Where off to? Something to eat? I too was just, fn here. What, Ormond? Best value in 
Dublin. Is that so? Diningroom Sit tight there. See, not be seea I think I'll join you. Come on. Richie 
led on. Bloom followed bag. Dinner fit for a prince. 

Miss Douce reached high to take a flagon, stretching her satin arm, her bust, that all but burst, so 
high. 

— O ! O ! jerked Lenehan, gasping at each stretch O ! 

But easily she seized her prey and led it low in triumph. 

— Why don't you grow? asked Blazes Boylan. 

Shebronze, dealing from her oblique jar thick syrupy liquor for his lips, looked as it flowed (flower 
in his coat: who gave him?), and syrupped with her voice: 

— Fine goods in small parcels. 

That is to say she. Neatly she poured slowsyrupy sloe. 

— Here's fortune, Blazes said. 

He pitched a broad coin down. Coin rang. 

— Hold on, said Lenehan, till I... 

— Fortune, he wished, lifting his bubbled ale. 

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— Sceptre will win in a canter, he said. 

— I plunged a bit, said Boylan winking and drinking. Not on my own, you know. Fancy of a friend 
of mine. 

Lenehan still drank and grinned at his tilted ale and at miss Douce's lips that all but hummed, not 
shut, the oceansong her lips had trilled. 

Idolores. The eastern seas. 

Clock whirred. Miss Kennedy passed their way (flower, wonder who gave), bearing away teatray. 
Clock clacked. 

Miss Douce took Boylan's coin, struck boldly the cashregister. It clanged. Clock clacked. Fair one 
of Egypt teased and sorted in the till and hummed and handed coins in change. Look to the west. A 
clack. For me. 

— What time is that? asked Blazes Boylan. Four? 

O'clock. 

Lenehan, small eyes ahunger on her humming, bust ahumming, tugged Blazes Boylan's elbowsleeve. 

— Let's hear the time, he said. 

The bag of Goulding, Collis, Ward led Bloom by ryebloom flowered tables. Aimless he chose with 
agitated aim, bald Pat attending, a table near the door. Be near. At four. Has he forgotten? Perhaps a 
trick. Not come: whet appetite. I couldn't do. Wait, wait. Pat, waiter, waited. 

Sparkling bronze azure eyed Blazure's skybhie bow and eyes. 

— Go on, pressed Lenehan. There's no-one. He never heard. 

— ... to Flora's lips did hie. 

High, a high note pealed in the treble clear. 

Bronzedouce communing with her rose that sank and rose sought 

Blazes Boylan's flower and eyes. 

— Please, please. 

He pleaded over returning phrases of avowal. 

— / could not leave thee. . . 

— Afterwits, miss Douce promised coyly. 

— No, now, urged Lenehan. Sonnezlacloche! O do! There's no-one. 

She looked. Quick. Miss Kenn out of earshot. Sudden bent. Two kindling faces watched her bend. 

Quavering the chords strayed from the air, found it again, lost chord, and lost and found it, faltering. 

— Go on! Do! Sonnez! 

Bending, she nipped a peak of skirt above her knee. Delayed. Taunted them still, bending, 
suspending, with wilful eyes. 

— Sonnez! 

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Smack. She set free sudden in rebound her nipped elastic garter smackwarm against her smackable 
a woman's warmhosed thigh 

— La Cloche! cried gleeful Lenehan Trained by owner. No sawdust there. 

She smilesmirked supercilious (wept! aren't men?), but, lightward gliding, mild she smiled on 
Boylan 

— You're the essence of vulgarity, she in gliding said. 

Boylan, eyed, eyed. Tossed to fat lips his chalice, drank off his chalice tiny, sucking the last fat 
violet syrupy drops. His spellbound eyes went after, after her gliding head as it went down the bar by 
mirrors, gilded arch for ginger ale, hock and claret glasses shimmering, a spiky shell, where it 
concerted, mirrored, bronze with sunnier bronze. 

Yes, bronze from anearby. 

— ... Sweetheart, goodbye! 

— I'm off, said Boylan with impatience. 

He slid his chalice brisk away, grasped his change. 

— Wait a shake, begged Lenehan, drinking quickly. I wanted to tell you. 

TomRochford... 

— Come on to blazes, said Blazes Boylan, going. 

Lenehan gulped to go. 

— Got the horn or what? he said. Wait. I'm coming. 

He followed the hasty creaking shoes but stood by nimbly by the threshold, saluting forms, a bulky 
with a slender. 

— How do you do, Mr Dollard? 

— Eh? How do? How do? Ben Dollard's vague bass answered, turning an instant from Father 
Cowley's woe. He won't give you any trouble, Bob. Alf Bergan will speak to the long fellow. We'll put 
a barleystraw in that Judas Iscariot's ear this time. 

Sighing Mr Dedalus came through the saloon, a finger soothing an eyelid. 

— Hoho, we will, Ben Dollard yodled jollity. Come on, Simon. Give us a ditty. We heard the piano. 

Bald Pat, bothered waiter, waited for drink orders. Power for Richie. And Bloom? Let me see. 
Not make him walk twice. His corns. Four now. How warm this black is. Course nerves a bit. 
Refracts (is it?) heat. Let me see. Cider. Yes, bottle of cider. 

— What's that? Mr Dedalus said. I was only vamping, man. 

— Come on, come on, Ben Dollard called. Begone dull care. Come, Bob. 

He ambled Dollard, bulky slops, before them (hold that fellow with the: hold him now) into the 
saloon. He plumped him Dollard on the stooL His gouty paws plumped chords. Plumped, stopped 
abrupt. 

Bald Pat in the doorway met tealess gold returning. Bothered, he wanted Power and cider. Bronze 
by the window, watched, bronze from afar. 

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Jingle a tinkle jaunted. 

Bloom heard a jing, a little sound. He's off Light sob of breath Bloom sighed on the silent bhiehued 
flowers. Jingling. He's gone. Jingle. Hear. 

— Love and War, Ben, Mr Dedahis said. God be with old times. 

Miss Douce's brave eyes, unregarded, turned from the crossblind, smitten by sunlight. Gone. 
Pensive (who knows?), smitten (the smiting light), she lowered the dropblind with a sliding cord. She 
drew down pensive (why did he go so quick when I?) about her bronze, over the bar where bald 
stood by sister gold, inexquisite contrast, contrast inexquisite nonexquisite, slow cool dim seagreen 
sliding depth of shadow, eau de Nil. 

— Poor old Goodwin was the pianist that night, Father Cowley reminded them There was a slight 
difference of opinion between himself and the Collard grand. 

There was. 

— A symposium all his own, Mr Dedahis said. The devil wouldn't stop him He was a crotchety old 
fellow in the primary stage of drink. 

— God, do you remember? Ben bulky Dollard said, turning from the punished keyboard. And by 
Japers I had no wedding garment. 

They laughed all three. He had no wed. All trio laughed. No wedding garment. 

— Our friend Bloom turned in handy that night, Mr Dedahis said. Where's my pipe, by the way? 

He wandered back to the bar to the lost chord pipe. Bald Pat carried two diners' drinks, Richie and 
Poldy And Father Cowley laughed again. 

— I saved the situation, Ben, I think. 

— You did, averred Ben Dollard. I remember those tight trousers too. That was a brilliant idea, 
Bob. 

Father Cowley blushed to his brilliant purpfy lobes. He saved the situa. Tight trou Brilliant ide. 

— I knew he was on the rocks, he said. The wife was playing the piano in the coffee palace on 
Saturdays for a very trifling consideration and who was it gave me the wheeze she was doing the other 
business? Do you remember? We had to search all Holies street to find them till the chap in Keogh's 
gave us the number. Remember? Ben remembered, his broad visage wondering. 

— By God, she had some luxurious operacloaks and things there. 

Mr Dedahis wandered back, pipe in hand. 

— Merrion square style. Balldresses, by God, and court dresses. He wouldn't take any money 
either. What? Any God's quantity of cocked hats and boleros and trunkhose. What? 

— Ay, ay, Mr Dedahis nodded. Mrs Marion Bloom has left off clothes of all descriptions. 

Jingle jaunted down the quays. Blazes sprawled on bounding tyres. 

Liver and bacon. Steak and kidney pie. Right, sir. Right, Pat. 

Mrs Marion. Met him pike hoses. Smell of burn. Of Paul de Kock. Nice name he. 

— What's this her name was? A buxom lassy. Marion.. 

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— Tweedy. 

— Yes. Is she alive? 

— And kicking. 

— She was a daughter of.. 

— Daughter of the regiment. 

— Yes, begad. I remember the old drummajor. 

Mr Dedahis struck, whizzed, lit, puffed savoury puff after 

— Irish? I don't know, faith. Is she, Simon? 

Puff after stiff, a puff, strong, savoury, crackling. 

— Buccinator muscle is... What?... Bit rusty... O, she is... My Irish Mo fty, O. 

He puffed a pungent plumy blast. 

— From the rock of Gibraltar... all the way. 

They pined in depth of ocean shadow, gold by the beerpull, bronze by maraschino, thoughtful all 
two. Mina Kennedy, 4 Lismore terrace, Drumcondra with Idolores, a queen, Dolores, silent. 

Pat served, uncovered dishes. Leopold cut liverslices. As said before he ate with relish the inner 
organs, nutty gizzards, fried cods' roes while Richie Goulding, Collis, Ward ate steak and kidney, 
steak then kidney, bite by bite of pie he ate Bloom ate they ate. 

Bloom with Goulding, married in silence, ate. Dinners fit for princes. 

By Bachelor's walk jogjaunty jingled Blazes Boylan, bachelor, in sun in heat, mare's glossy rump 
atrot, with flick of whip, on bounding tyres: sprawled, warmseated, Boylan impatience, ardentbold. 
Horn Have you the? Horn. Have you the? Haw haw horn. 

Over their voices Dolkrd bassooned attack, booming over bombarding chords: 

— When love absorbs my ardent soul... 

Roll of Bensoulbenjamin rolled to the quivery loveshivery roofrjanes. 

— War! War! cried Father Cowley. You're the warrior. 

— So I am, Ben Warrior laughed. I was thinking of your landlord. Love or money. 

He stopped. He wagged huge beard, huge face over his blunder huge. 

— Sure, you'd burst the tympanum of her ear, man, Mr Dedakis said through smoke aroma, with an 
organ like yours. 

In bearded abundant laughter Dollard shook upon the keyboard. He would. 

— Not to mention another membrane, Father Cowley added. Half time, Ben. Amoroso ma non 
troppo. Let me there. 

Miss Kennedy served two gentlemen with tankards of cool stout. She passed a remark. It was 
indeed, first gentleman said, beautiful weather. They drank cool stout. Did she know where the lord 
lieutenant was going? And heard steelhoofs ringhoof ring. No, she couldn't say. But it would be in the 
paper. O, she need not trouble. No trouble. She waved about her outspread Independent, searching, 

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the lord lieutenant, her pinnacles of hair slowmoving, lord lieuten Too much trouble, first gentleman 
said. O, not in the least. Way he looked that. Lord lieutenant. Gold by bronze heard iron steel. 

— my ardent soul 

I care not foror the morrow. 

In liver gravy Bloom mashed mashed potatoes. Love and War someone is. Ben Dollard's famous. 
Night he ran round to us to borrow a dress suit for that concert. Trousers tight as a drum on him 
Musical porkers. Molly did laugh when he went out. Threw herself back across the bed, screaming, 
kicking. With all his belongings on show. O saints above, I'm drenched! O, the women in the front 
row! O, I never laughed so many! Well, of course that's what gives him the base barreltone. For 
instance eunuchs. Wonder who's playing. Nice touch. Must be Cowley. MusicaL Knows whatever 
note you play. Bad breath he has, poor chap. Stopped. 

Miss Douce, engaging, Lydia Douce, bowed to suave solicitor, George Lidwell, gentleman, 
entering. Good afternoon She gave her moist (a lady's) hand to his firm clasp. Afternoon Yes, she 
was back. To the old dingdong again 

— Your friends are inside, Mr LidwelL 

George Lidwell, suave, solicited, held a fydiahand. 

Bloom ate liv as said before. Clean here at least. That chap in the Burton, gummy with gristle. No- 
one here: Goulding and I. Clean tables, flowers, mitres of napkins. Pat to and fro. Bald Pat. Nothing 
to do. Best value in Dub. 

Piano again. Cowley it is. Way he sits in to it, like one together, mutual understanding. Tiresome 
shapers scraping fiddles, eye on the bowend, sawing the cello, remind you of toothache. Her high long 
snore. Night we were in the box. Trombone under blowing like a grampus, between the acts, other 
brass chap unscrewing, emptying spittle. Conductor's legs too, bagstrousers, jiggedy jiggedy Do right 
to hide them 

Jiggedy jingle jaunty jaunty. 

Only the harp. Lovely. Gold glowering light. Girl touched it. Poop of a lovely. Gravy's rather good 
fit for a. Golden ship. Erin. The harp that once or twice. Cool hands. Ben Howth, the rhododendrons. 
We are their harps. I. He. Old. Young. 

— Ah, I couldn't, man, Mr Dedalus said, shy, listless. 

Strongly. 

— Go on, blast you! Ben Dolkrd growled. Get it out in bits. 

— M'appari, Simon, Father Cowley said. 

Down stage he strode some paces, grave, tall in affliction, his long arms outheld. Hoarsely the apple 
of his throat hoarsed softly. Softly he sang to a dusty seascape there: A Last Farewell. A headland, a 
ship, a sail upon the billows. Farewell A lovely girl, her veil awave upon the wind upon the headland, 
wind around her. 

Cowley sang: 

— M'appari tutt'amor: 

II mio sguardo I'incontr... 

She waved, unhearing Cowley, her veil, to one departing, dear one, to wind, love, speeding sail, 

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return. 

— Go on, Simon. 

— Ah, sure, my dancing days are done, Ben... Wei... 

Mr Dedalus laid his pipe to rest beside the tuningfork and, sitting, touched the obedient keys. 

— No, Simon, Father Cowley turned. Play it in the original. One flat. 

The keys, obedient, rose higher, told, faltered, confessed, confused. 

Up stage strode Father Cowley. 

— Here, Simon, I'll accompany you, he said. Get up. 

By Graham Lemon's pineapple rock, by Elvery's elephant jingfy jogged. Steak, kidney, liver, 
mashed, at meat fit for princes sat princes Bloom and Goulding Princes at meat they raised and 
drank, Power and cider. 

Most beautiful tenor air ever written, Richie said: Sonnambula. He heard Joe Maas sing that one 
night. Ah, what M'Guckin! Yes. In his way. Choirboy style. Maas was the boy. Massboy. A lyrical 
tenor if you like. Never forget it. Never. 

Tenderly Bloom over liverless bacon saw the tightened features strain. Backache he. Bright's bright 
eye. Next item on the programme. Paying the piper. Pills, pounded bread, worth a guinea a box. 
Stave it off awhile. Sings too: Down among the dead men. Appropriate. Kidney pie. Sweets to the. 
Not making much hand of it. Best value in. Characteristic of him Power. Particular about his drink. 
Flaw in the glass, fresh Vartry water. Fecking matches from counters to save. Then squander a 
sovereign in dribs and drabs. And when he's wanted not a farthing. Screwed refusing to pay his fare. 
Curious types. 

Never would Richie forget that night. As long as he lived: never. In the gods of the old Royal with 
little Peake. And when the first note. 

Speech paused on Richie's lips. 

Coming out with a whopper now. Rhapsodies about damn alL 

Believes his own lies. Does really. Wonderful liar. But want a good memory. 

— Which air is that? asked Leopold Bloom 

— All is lost now. 

Richie cocked his lips apout. A low incipient note sweet banshee murmured: all A thrush. A 
throstle. His breath, birdsweet, good teeth he's proud of, fluted with plaintive woe. Is lost. Rich sound. 
Two notes in one there. Blackbird I heard in the hawthorn valley. Taking my motives he twined and 
turned them All most too new call is lost in all Echo. How sweet the answer. How is that done? All 
lost now. Mournful he whistled. Fall, surrender, lost. 

Bloom bent leopold ear, turning a fringe of doyley down under the vase. Order. Yes, I remember. 
Lovely air. In sleep she went to him Innocence in the moon. Brave. Don't know their danger. Still 
hold her back. Call name. Touch water. Jingle jaunty. Too late. She longed to go. That's why. 
Woman. As easy stop the sea. Yes: all is lost. 

— A beautiful air, said Bloom lost Leopold. I know it well 

Never in all his life had Richie Goulding. 

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He knows it well too. Or he feels. Still harping on his daughter. Wise child that knows her father, 
Dedatus said. Me? 

Bloom askance over liverless saw. Face of the all is lost. Rollicking Richie once. Jokes old stale 
now. Wagging his ear. Napkinring in his eye. Now begging letters he sends his son with. Crosseyed 
Walter sir I did sir. Wouldn't trouble only I was expecting some money. Apologise. 

Piano again. Sounds better than last time I heard. Tuned probably. Stopped again. 

Dollard and Cowley still urged the lingering singer out with it. 

— With it, Simon. 

— It, Simon. 

— Ladies and gentlemen, I am most deeply obliged by your kind solicitations. 

— It, Simon. 

— I have no money but if you will lend me your attention I shall endeavour to sing to you of a heart 
bowed down 

By the sandwichbell in screening shadow Lydia, her bronze and rose, a lady's grace, gave and 
withheld: as in cool glaucous eau de Nil Mina to tankards two her pinnacles of gold. 

The harping chords of prelude closed. A chord, longdrawn, expectant, drew a voice away. 

— When first I saw that form endearing... 

Richie turned. 

— Si DedaLis' voice, he said. 

Braintipped, cheek touched with flame, they listened feeling that flow endearing flow over skin limbs 
human heart soul spine. Bloom signed to Pat, bald Pat is a waiter hard of hearing, to set ajar the door 
of the bar. The door of the bar. So. That will do. Pat, waiter, waited, waiting to hear, for he was hard 
of hear by the door. 

— Sorrow from me seemed to depart. 

Through the hush of air a voice sang to them, low, not rain, not leaves in murmur, like no voice of 
strings or reeds or whatdoyoucallthem dulcimers touching their still ears with words, still hearts of then- 
each his remembered lives. Good, good to hear: sorrow from them each seemed to from both depart 
when first they heard. When first they saw, lost Richie Poldy, mercy of beauty, heard from a person 
wouldn't expect it in the least, her first merciful lovesoft oftloved word. 

Love that is singing: love's old sweet song. Bloom unwound slowly the elastic band of his packet. 
Love's old sweet sonnez la gold. Bloom wound a skein round four forkfingers, stretched it, relaxed, 
and wound it round his troubled double, fourfold, in octave, gyved them fast. 

— Full of hope and all delighted... 

Tenors get women by the score. Increase their flow. Throw flower at his feet. When will we meet? 
My head it simply. Jingle all delighted. He can't sing for tall hats. Your head it simply swurls. Perfumed 
for him What perfume does your wife? I want to know. Jing Stop. Knock. Last look at mirror 
always before she answers the door. The hall There? How do you? I do well. There? What? Or? 
Phial of cachous, kissing comfits, in her satcheL Yes? Hands felt for the opulent. 

Alas the voice rose, sighing, changed: loud, full, shining, proud. 

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— But alas, 'twas idle dreaming... 

Glorious tone he has still. Cork air softer also their brogue. Silly man! Could have made oceans of 
money. Singing wrong words. Wore out his wife: now sings. But hard to tell. Only the two themselves. 
If he doesn't break down. Keep a trot for the avenue. His hands and feet sing too. Drink. Nerves 
overstrung. Must be abstemious to sing. Jenny Lind soup: stock, sage, raw eggs, half pint of cream 
For creamy dreamy. 

Tenderness it welled: slow, swelling, full it throbbed. That's the chat. Ha, give! Take! Throb, a 
throb, a pulsing proud erect. 

Words? Music? No: it's what's behind. 

Bloom looped, unlooped, noded, disnoded. 

Bloom Flood of warm jamjam lickitup secretness flowed to flow in music out, in desire, dark to 
lick flow invading. Tipping her tepping her tapping her topping her. Tup. Pores to dilate dilating. Tup. 
The joy the feel the warm the. Tup. To pour o'er sluices pouring gushes. Flood, gush flow, joygush, 
tup throb. Now! Language of love. 

— ... ray of hope is... 

Beaming. Lydia for Lidwell squeak scarcely hear so ladylike the muse unsqueaked a ray of hopk. 

Martha it is. Coincidence. Just going to write. Lionel's song. Lovely name you have. Can't write. 
Accept my little pres. Play on her heartstrings pursestrings too. She's a. I called you naughty boy. Still 
the name: Martha. How strange! Today. 

The voice of Lionel returned, weaker but unwearied. It sang again to Richie Poldy Lydia Lidwell 
also sang to Pat open mouth ear waiting to wait. How first he saw that form endearing, how sorrow 
seemed to part, how look, form, word charmed him Gould Lidwell, won Pat Bloom's heart. 

Wish I could see his face, though. Explain better. Why the barber in Drago's always looked my 
face when I spoke his face in the glass. Still hear it better here than in the bar though farther. 

— Each graceful look... 

First night when first I saw her at Mat Dillon's in Terenure. Yellow, black lace she wore. Musical 
chairs. We two the last. Fate. After her. Fate. 

Round and round slow. Quick round. We two. All looked. Halt. Down she sat. All ousted looked. 
Lips laughing. Yellow knees. 

— Charmed my eye... 

Singing. Waiting she sang. I turned her music. Full voice of perfume of what perfume does your 
lilactrees. Bosom I saw, both full, throat warbling. First I saw. She thanked me. Why did she me? 
Fate. Spanishy eyes. Under a peartree alone patio this hour in old Madrid one side in shadow Dolores 
shedolores. At me. Luring. Ah, alluring. 

— Martha! Ah, Martha! 

Quitting all languor Lionel cried in grief, in cry of passion dominant to love to return with deepening 
yet with rising chords of harmony. In cry of lionel loneliness that she should know, must martha feeL 
For only her he waited. Where? Here there try there here all try where. Somewhere. 

— Co-ome, thou lost one! 
Co-ome, thou dear one! 

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Alone. One love. One hope. One comfort me. Martha, chestnote, return! 

— Come! 

It soared, a bird, it held its flight, a swift pure cry, soar silver orb it leaped serene, speeding, 
sustained, to come, don't spin it out too long long breath he breath long life, soaring high, high 
resplendent, aflame, crowned, high in the effulgence symbolistic, high, of the etherial bosom, high of 
the high vast irradiation everywhere all soaring all around about the all, the endlessnessnessness... 

— To me! 

Siopold! 

Consumed. 

Come. Well sung. All clapped. She ought to. Come. To me, to him, to her, you too, me, us. 

— Bravo! Clapclap. Good man, Simon Clappyclapclap. Encore! Clapclipclap clap. Sound as a 
bell. Bravo, Simon! Clapclopclap. Encore, enclap, said, cried, clapped all, BenDollard, Lydia Douce, 
George Lidwell, Pat, Mina Kennedy, two gentlemen with two tankards, Cowley, first gent with tank 
and bronze miss Douce and gold MJiss Mina. 

Blazes Boylan's smart tan shoes creaked on the barfloor, said before. Jingle by monuments of sir 
John Gray, Horatio onehandled Nelson, reverend father Theobald Mathew, jaunted, as said before 
just now. Atrot, in heat, heatseated. Cloche. Sonnez la. Cloche. Sonnez la. Slower the mare went up 
the hill by the Rotunda, Rutland square. Too slow for Boylan, blazes Boylan, impatience Boylan, 
joggled the mare. 

An afterclang of Cowley's chords closed, died on the air made richer. 

And Richie Goulding drank his Power and Leopold Bloom his cider drank, Lidwell his Guinness, 
second gentleman said they would partake of two more tankards if she did not mind. Miss Kennedy 
smirked, disserving, coral lips, at first, at second. She did not mind. 

— Seven days in jail, Ben Dollard said, on bread and water. Then you'd sing, Simon, like a garden 
thrush. 

Lionel Simon, singer, laughed. Father Bob Cowley played. Mina Kennedy served. Second 
gentleman paid. Tom Kernan strutted in. Lydia, admired, admired. But Bloom sang dumb. 

Admiring. 

Richie, admiring, descanted on that man's glorious voice. He remembered one night long ago. 
Never forget that night. Si sang 'Twas rank and fame: in Ned Lambert's 'twas. Good God he never 
heard in all his life a note like that he never did then false one we had better part so clear so God he 
never heard since love lives not a clinking voice lives not ask Lambert he can tell you too. 

Goulding, a flush struggling in his pale, told Mr Bloom, face of the night, Si in Ned Lambert's, 
Dedalus house, sang 'Twas rank and fame. 

He, Mr Bloom, listened while he, Richie Goulding, told him, Mr Bloom, of the night he, Richie, 
heard him, Si Dedalus, sing 'TWAS RANK AND FAME in his, Ned Lambert's, house. 

Brothers-in-law: relations. We never speak as we pass by. Rift in the lute I think. Treats him with 
scorn See. He admires him all the more. The night Si sang. The human voice, two tiny silky chords, 
wonderful, more than all others. 

That voice was a lamentation Calmer now. It's in the silence after you feel you hear. Vibrations. 

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Now silent air. 

Bloom ungyved his crisscrossed hands and with slack fingers plucked the slender catgut thong. He 
drew and plucked. It buzz, it twanged. While Goulding talked of Barraclough's voice production, 
while Tom Kernan, harking back in a retrospective sort of arrangement talked to listening Father 
Cowley, who played a voluntary, who nodded as he played. While big Ben Dollard talked with Simon 
Dedahis, lighting, who nodded as he smoked, who smoked. 

Thou lost one. All songs on that theme. Yet more Bloom stretched his string. Cruel it seems. Let 
people get fond of each other: lure them on Then tear asunder. Death. Explos. Knock on the head. 
Outtohelloutofthat. Human life. Dignam Ugh, that rat's tail wriggling! Five bob I gave. Corpus 
paradisum. Corncrake croaker: belly like a poisoned pup. Gone. They sing. Forgotten. I too; And 
one day she with. Leave her: get tired. Suffer then. Snivel. Big spanishy eyes goggling at nothing. Her 
wavyavyeavyheavyeavyevyevyhair un comb:'d. 

Yet too much happy bores. He stretched more, more. Are you not happy in your? Twang. It 
snapped. 

Jingle into Dorset street. 

Miss Douce withdrew her satiny arm, reproachful, pleased. 

— Don't make half so free, said she, till we are better acquainted. 

George Lidwell told her really and truly: but she did not believe. 

First gentleman told Mina that was so. She asked him was that so. And second tankard told her so. 
That that was so. 

Miss Douce, miss Lydia, did not believe: miss Kennedy, Mina, did not believe: George Lidwell, no: 
miss Dou did not: the first, the first: gent with the tank: believe, no, no: did not, miss Kenn: 
Lidfydiawell: the tank. 

Better write it here. Quills in the postoffice chewed and twisted. 

Bald Pat at a sign drew nigh. A pen and ink. He went. A pad. He went. A pad to blot. He heard, 
deafPat. 

— Yes, Mr Bloom said, teasing the curling catgut line. It certainly is. Few lines will do. My present. 
All that Italian florid music is. Who is this wrote? Know the name you know better. Take out sheet 
notepaper, envelope: unconcerned. It's so characteristic. 

— Grandest number in the whole opera, Goulding said. 

— It is, Bloom said. 

Numbers it is. All music when you come to think. Two multiplied by two divided by half is twice 
one. Vibrations: chords those are. One plus two phis six is seven Do anything you like with figures 
juggling. Always find out this equal to that. Symmetry under a cemetery wall He doesn't see my 
mourning. Callous: all for his own gut. Musemathematics. And you think you're listening to the etherial. 
But suppose you said it like: Martha, seven times nine minus x is thirtyfive thousand. Fall quite flat. It's 
on account of the sounds it is. 

Instance he's playing now. Improvising. Might be what you like, till you hear the words. Want to 
listen sharp. Hard. Begin all right: then hear chords a bit off: feel lost a bit. In and out of sacks, over 
barrels, through wirefences, obstacle race. Time makes the tune. Question of mood you're in. Still 
always nice to hear. Except scales up and down, girls learning. Two together nextdoor neighbours. 
Ought to invent dummy pianos for that. Blumenlied I bought for her. The name. Playing it slow, a girl 

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night I came home, the girl. Door of the stables near Cecilia street. Milry no taste. Queer because we 
both, I mean. 

Bald deaf Pat brought quite flat pad ink. Pat set with ink pen quite flat pad. Pat took plate dish knife 
fork. Pat went. 

It was the onfy language Mr Dedalus said to Ben. He heard them as a boy in Ringabella, 
Crosshaven, Ringabella, singing their barcaroles. Queenstown harbour full of Italian ships. Walking, 
you know, Ben, in the moonlight with those earthquake hats. Blending their voices. God, such music, 
Ben. Heard as a boy. Cross Ringabella haven mooncarole. 

Sour pipe removed he held a shield of hand beside his lips that cooed a moonlight nightcall, clear 
from anear, a call from afar, replying 

Down the edge of his Freeman baton ranged Bloom's, your other eye, scanning for where did I see 
that. Calkn, Coleman, Dignam Patrick. Heigho! Heigho! Fawcett. Aha! Just I was looking... 

Hope he's not looking, cute as a rat. He held unfurled his Freeman. Can't see now. Remember 
write Greek ees. Bloom dipped, Bloo mur: dear sir. Dear Henry wrote: dear Mady. Got your lett and 
flow. Hell did I put? Some pock or oth. It is utterl imposs. Underline imposs. To write today. 

Bore this. Bored Bloom tambourined gentry with I am just reflecting fingers on flat pad Pat brought. 

Oa Know what I mean. No, change that ee. Accep my poor litt pres enclos. Ask her no answ. 
Hold on. Five Dig. Two about here. Penny the gulls. Elijah is com Seven Davy Byrne's. Is eight 
about. Say half a crown. My poor little pres: p. o. two and six. Write me a long. Do you despise? 
Jingle, have you the? So excited. Why do you call me naught? You naughty too? O, Mairy lost the 
string of her. Bye for today. Yes, yes, will tell you. Want to. To keep it up. Call me that other. Other 
world she wrote. My patience are exhaust. To keep it up. You must believe. Believe. The tank. It. Is. 
True. 

Folly am I writing? Husbands don't. That's marriage does, their wives. Because I'm away from. 
Suppose. But how? She must. Keep young. If she found out. Card in my high grade ha. No, not tell 
all Useless pain. If they don't see. Woman. Sauce for the gander. 

A hackney car, number three hundred and twentyfour, driver Barton James of number one 
Harmony avenue, Donnybrook, on which sat a fare, a young gentleman, stylishly dressed in an 
indigobhie serge suit made by George Robert Mesias, tailor and cutter, of number five Eden quay, and 
wearing a straw hat very dressy, bought of John Plasto of number one Great Brunswick street, hatter. 
Eh? This is the jingle that joggled and jingled. By Dhigacz' porkshop bright tubes of Agendath trotted a 
gallantbuttocked mare. 

— Answering an ad? keen Richie's eyes asked Bloom 

— Yes, Mr Bloom said. Town traveller. Nothing doing, I expect. 

Bbom mur: best references. But Henry wrote: it will excite me. You know how. In haste. Henry. 
Greek ee. Better add postscript. What is he playing now? Improvising. Intermezzo. P. S. The rum rum 
rum. How will you pun? You punish me? Crooked skirt swinging, whack by. Tell me I want to. 
Know. O. Course if I didn't I wouldn't ask. La la la ree. Trails off there sad in minor. Why minor sad? 
Sign H. They like sad tail at end. P. P. S. La la k ree. I feel so sad today. La ree. So lonely. Dee. 

He blotted quick on pad of Pat. EnveL Address. Just copy out of paper. Murmured: Messrs 
Calkn, Coleman and Co, limited. Henry wrote: 

Miss Martha Clifford c/o P. O. Dolphin's Bam Lane Dublin 

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Blot over the other so he can't read. There. Right. Idea prize titbit. Something detective read off 
blottingpad. Payment at the rate of guinea per col. Matcham often thinks the laughing witch. Poor Mrs 
Purefoy. U. P: up. 

Too poetical that about the sad. Music did that. Music hath charms. Shakespeare said. Quotations 
every day in the year. To be or not to be. Wisdom while you wait. 

In Gerard's rosery of Fetter lane he walks, greyedauburn One life is aft One body. Do. But do. 

Done anyhow. Postal order, stamp. Postoffice lower down. Walk now. Enough. Barney Kiernan's 
I promised to meet them Dislike that job. 

House of mourning. Walk. Pat! Doesn't hear. Deaf beetle he is. 

Car near there now. Talk. Talk. Pat! Doesn't. Settling those napkins. Lot of ground he must cover 
in the day. Paint face behind on him then he'd be two. Wish they'd sing more. Keep my mind off 

Bald Pat who is bothered mitred the napkins. Pat is a waiter hard of his hearing. Pat is a waiter who 
waits while you wait. Hee hee hee hee. He waits while you wait. Hee hee. A waiter is he. Hee hee hee 
hee. He waits while you wait. While you wait if you wait he will wait while you wait. Hee hee hee hee. 
Hoh Wait while you wait. 

Douce now. Douce Lydia. Bronze and rose. 

She had a gorgeous, simply gorgeous, time. And look at the lovely shell she brought. 

To the end of the bar to him she bore lightly the spiked and winding seahorn that he, George 
Lidwell, solicitor, might hear. 

— Listen! she bade him 

Under Tom Kernan's ginhot words the accompanist wove music slow. Authentic fact. How Walter 
Bapty lost his voice. Weft, sir, the husband took him by the throat. Scoundrel, said he, You'll sing no 
more lovesongs. He did, faith, sir Tom Bob Cowley wove. Tenors get worn Cowley lay back. 

Ah, now he heard, she holding it to his ear. Hear! He heard. 

WonderfuL She held it to her own And through the sifted light pale gold in contrast glided. To hear. 

Tap. 

Bloom through the bardoor saw a shell held at their ears. He heard more faintly that that they heard, 
each for herself alone, then each for other, hearing the plash of waves, loudly, a silent roar. 

Bronze by a weary gold, anear, afar, they listened. 

Her ear too is a shell, the peeping lobe there. Been to the seaside. Lovely seaside girls. Skin tanned 
raw. Should have put on coldcream first make it brown. Buttered toast. O and that lotion mustn't 
forget. Fever near her mouth. Your head it simply. Hair braided over: shell with seaweed. Why do 
they hide their ears with seaweed hair? And Turks the mouth why? Her eyes over the sheet. 
Yashmak. Find the way in. A cave. No admittance except on business. 

The sea they think they hear. Singing. A roar. The blood it is. Souse in the ear sometimes. Well, it's 
a sea. Corpuscle islands. 

Wonderful reafty. So distinct. Again. George Lidwell held its murmur, hearing: then kid it by, gentry. 

— What are the wild waves saying? he asked her, smiled. 

Charming, seasmiling and unanswering Lydia on Lidwell smiled. 

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Tap. 

By Larry O'Rourke's, by Larry, bold Larry O', Boylan swayed and Boylan turned. 

From the forsaken shell miss Mina glided to her tankards waiting. No, she was not so lonely archly 
miss Douce's head let Mr Lidwell know. Walks in the moonlight by the sea. No, not alone. With 
whom? She nobly answered: with a gentleman friend. 

Bob Cowley's twinkling ringers in the treble played again. The landlord has the prior. A little time. 
Long John. Big Ben Lightly he played a light bright tinkling measure for tripping ladies, arch and 
smiling, and for their gallants, gentlemen friends. One: one, one, one, one, one: two, one, three, four. 

Sea, wind, leaves, thunder, waters, cows lowing, the cattlemarket, cocks, hens don't crow, snakes 
hissss. There's music everywhere. Ruttledge's door: ee creaking. No, that's noise. Minuet of Don 
Giovanni he's playing now. Court dresses of all descriptions in castle chambers dancing. Misery. 
Peasants outside. Green starving faces eating dockleaves. Nice that is. Look: look, look, look, look, 
look: you look at us. 

That's joyful I can feel. Never have written it. Why? My joy is other joy. But both are joys. Yes, 
joy it must be. Mere fact of music shows you are. Often thought she was in the dumps till she began to 
lilt. Then know. 

M'Coy valise. My wife and your wife. Squealing cat. Like tearing silk. Tongue when she talks like 
the clapper of a bellows. They can't manage men's intervals. Gap in their voices too. Fill me. I'm 
warm, dark, open. Molly in quis est homo: Mercadante. My ear against the wall to hear. Want a 
woman who can deliver the goods. 

Jog jig jogged stopped. Dandy tan shoe of dandy Boylan socks skybhie clocks came light to earth. 

O, look we are so! Chamber music. Could make a kind of pun on that. It is a kind of music I often 
thought when she. Acoustics that is. Tinkling. Empty vessels make most noise. Because the acoustics, 
the resonance changes according as the weight of the water is equal to the law of falling water. Like 
those rhapsodies of Liszt's, Hungarian, gipsyeyed. Pearls. Drops. Rain. Diddleiddle addleaddle 
ooddleooddle. Hissss. Now. Maybe now. Before. 

One rapped on a door, one tapped with a knock, did he knock Paul de Kock with a loud proud 
knocker with a cock carracarracarra cock. Cockcock. 

Tap. 

— Qui sdegno, Ben, said Father Cowley. 

— No, Ben, Tom Keman interfered. The Croppy Boy. Our native Doric. 

— Ay do, Ben, Mr Dedalus said. Good men and true. 

— Do, do, they begged in one. 

I'll go. Here, Pat, return. Come. He came, he came, he did not stay. To me. How much? 

—What key? Six sharps? 

— F sharp major, Ben Dollard said. 

Bob Cowley's outstretched talons griped the black deepsounding chords. 

Must go prince Bloom told Richie prince. No, Richie said. Yes, must. Got money somewhere. He's 
on for a razzle backache spree. Much? He seehears lipspeech. One and nine. Penny for yourself 
Here. Give him twopence tip. Deaf, bothered. But perhaps he has wife and family waiting, waiting 

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Patty come home. Hee hee hee hee. Deaf wait while they wait. 

But wait. But hear. Chords dark. Lugugugubrious. Low. In a cave of the dark middle earth. 
Embedded ore. Lumpmusic. 

The voice of dark age, of unlove, earth's fatigue made grave approach and painful, come from afar, 
from hoary mountains, called on good men and true. The priest he sought. With him would he speak a 
word. 

Tap. 

Ben Dollard's voice. Base barreltone. Doing his level best to say it. Croak of vast manless moonless 
womoonless marsh. Other comedown. Big ships' chandler's business he did once. Remember: rosiny 
ropes, ships' lanterns. Failed to the tune of ten thousand pounds. Now in the Iveagh home. Cubicle 
number so and so. Number one Bass did that for him 

The priest's at home. A false priest's servant bade him welcome. Step in. The holy father. With 
bows a traitor servant. Curfycues of chords. 

Ruin them Wreck their lives. Then build them cubicles to end their days in. Hushaby. Lullaby. Die, 
dog. Little dog, die. 

The voice of warning, solemn warning, told them the youth had entered a lonely hall, told them how 
solemn fell his footsteps there, told them the gloomy chamber, the vested priest sitting to shrive. 

Decent soul. Bit addled now. Thinks he'll win in Answers, poets' picture puzzle. We hand you crisp 
five pound note. Bird sitting hatching in a nest. Lay of the last minstrel he thought it was. See blank tee 
what domestic animal? Tee dash ar most courageous mariner. Good voice he has still. No eunuch yet 
with all his belongings. 

Listen Bloom listened. Richie Goulding listened. And by the door deaf Pat, bald Pat, tipped Pat, 
listened. The chords harped slower. 

The voice of penance and of grief came slow, embellished, tremulous. Ben's contrite beard 
confessed, in nomine Domini, in God's name he knelt. He beat his hand upon his breast, confessing: 
mea culpa. 

Latin again. That holds them like birdlime. Priest with the communion corpus for those women. 
Chap in the mortuary, coffin or coffey, corpusnomine. Wonder where that rat is by now. Scrape. 

Tap. 

They listened. Tankards and miss Kennedy. George Lidwell, eyelid well expressive, fullbusted satin. 
Kernan Si 

The sighing voice of sorrow sang. His sins. Since Easter he had cursed three times. You bitch's 
bast. And once at masstime he had gone to play. Once by the churchyard he had passed and for his 
mother's rest he had not prayed. A boy. A croppy boy. 

Bronze, listening, by the beerpull gazed far away. Soulfulry. Doesn't half know I'm Molly great dab 
at seeing anyone looking. 

Bronze gazed far sideways. Mirror there. Is that best side of her face? They always know. Knock 
at the door. Last tip to titivate. 

Cockcarracarra. 

What do they think when they hear music? Way to catch rattlesnakes. Night Michael Gunn gave us 

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the box. Tuning up. Shah of Persia liked that best. Remind him of home sweet home. Wiped his nose 
in curtain too. Custom his country perhaps. That's music too. Not as bad as it sounds. Tootling. 
Brasses braying asses through uptrunks. Doublebasses helpless, gashes in their sides. Woodwinds 
mooing cows. Semigrand open crocodile music hathjaws. Woodwind like Goodwin's name. 

She looked fine. Her crocus dress she wore lowcut, belongings on show. Clove her breath was 
always in theatre when she bent to ask a question. Told her what Spinoza says in that book of poor 
papa's. Hypnotised, listening. Eyes like that. She bent. Chap in dresscircle staring down into her with 
his operaglass for all he was worth. Beauty of music you must hear twice. Nature woman half a look. 
God made the country man the tune. Met him pike hoses. Philosophy. O rocks! 

All gone. All fallen. At the siege of Ross his father, at Gorey all his brothers fell. To Wexford, we 
are the boys of Wexford, he would. Last of his name and race. 

I too. Last of my race. Milry young student. Well, my fault perhaps. No son. Rudy. Too late now. 
Or if not? If not? If still? 

He bore no hate. 

Hate. Love. Those are names. Rudy. Soon I am old. Big Ben his voice unfolded. Great voice 
Richie Goulding said, a flush struggling in his pale, to Bloom soon old. But when was young? 

Ireland comes now. My country above the king. She listens. Who fears to speak of nineteen four? 
Time to be shoving. Looked enough 

— Bless me, father, Dollard the croppy cried. Bless me and let me go. 

Tap. 

Bloom looked, unblessed to go. Got up to kill: on eighteen bob a week. Fellows shell out the dibs. 
Want to keep your weathereye open. Those girls, those lovely. By the sad sea waves. Chorusgirl's 
romance. Letters read out for breach of promise. From Chickabiddy's owny Mumpsypum Laughter 
in court. Henry. I never signed it. The lovely name you. 

Low sank the music, air and words. Then hastened. The false priest rustling soldier from his 
cassock. A yeoman captain. They know it all by heart. The thrill they itch for. Yeoman cap. 

Tap. Tap. 

Thrilled she listened, bending in sympathy to hear. 

Blank face. Virgin should say: or fingered only. Write something on it: page. If not what becomes of 
them? Decline, despair. Keeps them young. Even admire themselves. See. Play on her. Lip blow. 
Body of white woman, a flute alive. Blow gentle. Loud. Three holes, all womea Goddess I didn't see. 
They want it. Not too much polite. That's why he gets them Gold in your pocket, brass in your face. 
Say something Make her hear. With look to look. Songs without words. Molly, that hurdygurdy boy. 
She knew he meant the monkey was sick. Or because so like the Spanish. Understand animals too 
that way. Solomon did. Gift of nature. 

Ventriloquise. My lips closed. Think in my stom What? 

Will? You? I. Want. You. To. 

With hoarse rude fury the yeoman cursed, swelling in apoplectic bitch's bastard. A good thought, 
boy, to come. One hour's your time to live, your last. 

Tap. Tap. 

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Thrill now. Pity they feel. To wipe away a tear for martyrs that want to, dying to, die. For all things 
dying, for all things born. Poor Mrs Purefoy. Hope she's over. Because their wombs. 

A liquid of womb of woman eyeball gazed under a fence of lashes, calmly, hearing. See real beauty 
of the eye when she not speaks. On yonder river. At each slow satiny heaving bosom's wave (her 
heaving embon) red rose rose slowly sank red rose. Heartbeats: her breath: breath that is life. And all 
the tiny tiny fernfoils trembled of maidenhair. 

But look. The bright stars fade. O rose! Castile. The mom. Ha. LidwelL For him then not for. 
Infatuated. I like that? See her from here though. Popped corks, splashes of beerfroth, stacks of 
empties. 

On the smooth jutting beerpull laid Lydia hand, lightly, plumpfy, leave it to my hands. All lost in pity 
for croppy. Fro, to: to, fro: over the polished knob (she knows his eyes, my eyes, her eyes) her thumb 
and finger passed in pity: passed, reposed and, gentry touching, then slid so smoothly, slowly down, a 
cool firm white enamel baton protruding through their sliding ring. 

With a cock with a carra. 

Tap. Tap. Tap. 

I hold this house. Amen. He gnashed in fury. Traitors swing. 

The chords consented. Very sad thing But had to be. Get out before the end. Thanks, that was 
heavenly. Where's my hat. Pass by her. Can leave that Freeman. Letter I have. Suppose she were 
the? No. Walk, walk, walk. Like Cashel Boylo Connoro Coylo Tisdall Maurice Tisntdall Farrell. 
Waaaaaaalk. 

Well, I must be. Are you off? Yrfrnstbyes. Blmstup. O'er ryehigh blue. Ow. Bloom stood up. Soap 
feeling rather sticky behind. Must have sweated: music. That lotion, remember. Well, so long. High 
grade. Card inside. Yes. 

By deaf Pat in the doorway straining ear Bloom passed. 

At Geneva barrack that young man died. At Passage was his body kid. Dolor! O, he dolores! The 
voice of the mournful chanter called to dolorous prayer. 

By rose, by satiny bosom, by the fondling hand, by slops, by empties, by popped corks, greeting in 
going, past eyes and maidenhair, bronze and faint gold in deepseashadow, went Bloom, soft Bloom, I 
feel so lonely Bloom 

Tap. Tap. Tap. 

Pray for him, prayed the bass of Dollard. You who hear in peace. Breathe a prayer, drop a tear, 
good men, good people. He was the croppy boy. 

Scaring eavesdropping boots croppy bootsboy Bloom in the Ormond hallway heard the growls and 
roars of bravo, fat backslapping, their boots all treading, boots not the boots the boy. General chorus 
off for a swill to wash it down. Glad I avoided. 

— Come on, Ben, Simon Dedatus cried. By God, you're as good as ever you were. 

— Better, said Tomgin Kernan. Most trenchant rendition of that ballad, upon my soul and honour It 
is. 

— Lablache, said Father Cowley. 

Ben Dollard bulkiry cachuchad towards the bar, mightily praisefed and all big roseate, on 

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heavyfooted feet, his gouty fingers nakkering castagnettes in the air. 

Big Benaben Do Hard. Big Benben Big Benben. 

Rrr. 

And deepmoved all, Simon trumping compassion from foghorn nose, all laughing they brought him 
forth, Ben Dollard, in right good cheer. 

— You're looking rubicund, George Lidwell said. 

Miss Douce composed her rose to wait. 

— Ben machree, said Mr Dedahis, clapping Ben's fat back shoulderblade. Fit as a fiddle only he 
has a lot of adipose tissue concealed about his person. 

Rrrrrrrsss. 

— Fat of death, Simon, Ben Dollard growled. 

Richie rift in the lute alone sat: Goulding, Collis, Ward. Uncertainly he waited. Unpaid Pat too. 

Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. 

Miss Mina Kennedy brought near her lips to ear of tankard one. 

— Mr Dollard, they murmured low. 

— Dollard, murmured tankard. 

Tank one believed: miss Kenn when she: that doll he was: she doll: the tank. 

He murmured that he knew the name. The name was familiar to him, that is to say. That was to say 
he had heard the name of Dollard, was it? Dollard, yes. 

Yes, her lips said more loudly, Mr Dollard. He sang that song lovely, murmured Mina. Mr Dollard. 
And The last rose of summer was a lovely song. Mina loved that song. Tankard loved the song that 
Mina. 

'Tis the last rose of summer dollard left bloom felt wind wound round inside. 

Gassy thing that cider: binding too. Wait. Postoftice near Reuben Js one and eightpence too. Get 
shut of it. Dodge round by Greek street. Wish I hadn't promised to meet. Freer in air. Music. Gets on 
your nerves. BeerpulL Her hand that rocks the cradle rules the. Ben Howth That rules the world. 

Far. Far. Far. Far. 

Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. 

Up the quay went Lionelleopold, naughty Henry with letter for Mady, with sweets of sin with frillies 
for Raoul with met him pike hoses went Poldy on. 

Tap blind walked tapping by the tap the curbstone tapping, tap by tap. 

Cowley, he stuns himself with it: kind of drunkenness. Better give way only halfway the way of a 
man with a maid. Instance enthusiasts. All ears. Not lose a demisemiquaver. Eyes shut. Head nodding 
in time. Dotty. You daren't budge. Thinking strictly prohibited. Always talking shop. Fiddlefaddle 
about notes. 

All a kind of attempt to talk. Unpleasant when it stops because you never know exac. Organ in 
Gardiner street. Old Glynn fifty quid a year. Queer up there in the cockloft, alone, with stops and 

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locks and keys. Seated all day at the organ. Maunder on for hours, talking to himself or the other 
fellow blowing the bellows. Growl angry, then shriek cursing (want to have wadding or something in 
his no don't she cried), then all of a soft sudden wee little wee little pipy wind. 

Pwee! A wee little wind piped eeee. In Bloom's little wee. 

— Was he? Mr Dedahis said, returning with fetched pipe. I was with him this morning at poor little 
Paddy Dignam's... 

— Ay, the Lord have mercy on him 

— By the bye there's a tuningfork in there on the... 

Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. 

— The wife has a fine voice. Or had. What? Lidwell asked. 

— O, that must be the tuner, Lydia said to Simonlionel first I saw, forgot it when he was here. 

Blind he was she told George Lidwell second I saw. And played so exquisitely, treat to hear. 
Exquisite contrast: bronzelid, minagold. 

— Shout! Ben Dollard shouted, pouring. Sing out! 

— 'lido! cried Father Cowley. 

Rrrrrr. 

I feel I want... 

Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap 

— Very, Mr Dedahis said, staring hard at a headless sardine. 

Under the sandwichbell lay on a bier of bread one last, one lonely, last sardine of summer. Bloom 
alone. 

— Very, he stared. The lower register, for choice. 

Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. 

Bloom went by Barry's. Wish I could. Wait. That wonderworker if I had. Twentyfour solicitors in 
that one house. Counted them Litigation. Love one another. Piles of parchment. Messrs Pick and 
Pocket have power of attorney. Goulding, Collis, Ward. 

But for example the chap that wallops the big drum His vocation: Mickey Rooney's band. Wonder 
how it first struck him Sitting at home after pig's cheek and cabbage nursing it in the armchair. 
Rehearsing his band part. Pom Pompedy. Jolly for the wife. Asses' skins. Welt them through life, then 
wallop after death. Pom. Wallop. Seems to be what you call yashmak or I mean kismet. Fate. 

Tap. Tap. A stripling, blind, with a tapping cane came taptaptapping by Daly's window where a 
mermaid hair all streaming (but he couldn't see) blew whiffs of a mermaid (blind couldn't), mermaid, 
coolest whiff of all 

Instruments. A blade of grass, shell of her hands, then blow. Even comb and tissuepaper you can 
knock a tune out of Molly in her shift in Lombard street west, hair down. I suppose each kind of 
trade made its own, don't you see? Hunter with a horn. Haw. Have you the? Cloche. Sonnez la. 
Shepherd his pipe. Pwee little wee. Policeman a whistle. Locks and keys! Sweep! Four o'clock's all's 
well! Sleep! All is lost now. Drum? Pompedy. Wait. I know. Towncrier, bumbailiff Long John. 
Waken the dead. Pom Dignam Poor little nominedomine. Pom It is music. I mean of course it's all 

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pom pom pom very much what they call da capo. Still you can hear. As we march, we march along, 
march along. Pom 

I must really. Fff Now if I did that at a banquet. Just a question of custom shah of Persia. Breathe a 
prayer, drop a tear. All the same he must have been a bit of a natural not to see it was a yeoman cap. 
Muffled up. Wonder who was that chap at the grave in the brown niacin. O, the whore of the lane! 

A frowsy whore with black straw sailor hat askew came glazfty in the day along the quay towards 
Mr Bloom When first he saw that form endearing? Yes, it is. I feel so lonely. Wet night in the lane. 
Horn Who had the? Heehaw shesaw. Off her beat here. What is she? Hope she. Psst! Any chance of 
your wash. Knew Molly. Had me decked. Stout lady does be with you in the brown costume. Put you 
off your stroke, that. Appointment we made knowing we'd never, well hardly ever. Too dear too near 
to home sweet home. Sees me, does she? Looks a fright in the day. Face like dip. Damn her. O, well, 
she has to live like the rest. Look in here. 

In Lionel Marks's antique saleshop window haughty Henry Lionel Leopold dear Henry Flower 
earnestly Mr Leopold Bloom envisaged battered candlesticks melodeon oozing maggoty blowbags. 
Bargain: six bob. Might learn to play. Cheap. Let her pass. Course everything is dear if you don't want 
it. That's what good salesman is. Make you buy what he wants to sell Chap sold me the Swedish 
razor he shaved me with. Wanted to charge me for the edge he gave it. She's passing now. Six bob. 

Must be the cider or perhaps the burgund. 

Near bronze from anear near gold from afar they chinked their clinking glasses all, brighteyed and 
gallant, before bronze Lydia's tempting last rose of summer, rose of Castile. First Lid, De, Cow, Ker, 
Doll, a fifth: Lidwell, Si Dedahis, Bob Cowley, Kernan and big Ben Dollard. 

Tap. A youth entered a lonely Ormond hall. 

Bloom viewed a gallant pictured hero in Lionel Marks's window. Robert Emmet's last words. 
Seven last words. Of Meyerbeer that is. 

— True men like you men. 

— Ay, ay, Ben 

— Will lift your glass with us. 

They lifted. 

Tschink. Tschunk. 

Tip. An unseeing stripling stood in the door. He saw not bronze. He saw not gold. Nor Ben nor 
Bob nor Tom nor Si nor George nor tanks nor Richie nor Pat. Hee hee hee hee. He did not see. 

Seabloom, greaseab loom viewed last words. Softly. When my country takes her place among. 

Prrprr. 

Must be the bur. 

Fffl Oo. Rrpr. 

Nations of the earth. No-one behind. She's passed. Then andnot tillthen. Tram kran kran kran 
Good oppor. Coming. Krandlkrankran I'm sure it's the burgund. Yes. One, two. Let my epitaph be. 
Kraaaaaa. Written. I have. 

PprrpffrrppfBT. 

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Done. 

I was just passing the time of day with old Troy of the D. M. P. at the corner of Arbour hill there 
and be damned but a bloody sweep came along and he near drove his gear into my eye. I turned 
around to let him have the weight of my tongue when who should I see dodging along Stony Batter 
only Joe Hynes. 

— Lo, Joe, says I. How are you blowing? Did you see that bloody chimneysweep near shove my 
eye out with his brush? 

— Soot's luck, says Joe. Who's the old ballocks you were talking to? 

— Old Troy, says I, was in the force. I'm on two minds not to give that fellow in charge for 
obstructing the thoroughfare with his brooms and ladders. 



-What are you doing round those parts? says Joe. 



— Devil a much, says I. There's a bloody big foxy thief beyond by the garrison church at the corner 
of Chicken lane — old Troy was just giving me a wrinkle about him — lifted any God's quantity of tea 
and sugar to pay three bob a week said he had a farm in the county Down off a hop-of-my-thumb by 
the name of Moses Herzog over there near Heytesbury street. 

— Circumcised? says Joe. 

— Ay, says I. A bit off the top. An old plumber named Geraghty. I'm hanging on to his taw now for 
the past fortnight and I can't get a penny out of him 

— That the lay you're on now? says Joe. 

— Ay, says I. How are the mighty fallen! Collector of bad and doubtful debts. But that's the most 
notorious bloody robber you'd meet in a day's walk and the face on him all pockmarks would hold a 
shower of rain. Tell him, says he, I dare him, says he, and I doubledare him to send you round 
here again or if he does, says he, I'll have him summonsed up before the court, so I will, for 
trading without a licence. And he after stuffing himself till he's fit to burst. Jesus, I had to laugh at the 
little jewy getting his shirt out. He drink me my teas. He eat me my sugars. Because he no pay me 
my moneys? 

For nonperishable goods bought of Moses Herzog, of 13 Saint Kevin's parade in the city of Dublin, 
Wood quay ward, merchant, hereinafter called the vendor, and sold and delivered to Michael E. 
Geraghty, esquire, of 29 Arbour hill in the city of Dublin, Arran quay ward, gentleman, hereinafter 
called the purchaser, videlicet, five pounds avoirdupois of first choice tea at three shillings and no 
pence per pound avoirdupois and three stone avoirdupois of sugar, crushed crystal, at threepence per 
pound avoirdupois, the said purchaser debtor to the said vendor of one pound five shillings and 
sixpence sterling for value received which amount shall be paid by said purchaser to said vendor in 
weekly instalments every seven calendar days of three shillings and no pence sterling: and the said 
nonperishable goods shall not be pawned or pledged or sold or otherwise alienated by the said 
purchaser but shall be and remain and be held to be the sole and exclusive property of the said vendor 
to be disposed of at his good will and pleasure until the said amount shall have been duly paid by the 
said purchaser to the said vendor in the manner herein set forth as this day hereby agreed between the 
said vendor, his heirs, successors, trustees and assigns of the one part and the said purchaser, his 
heirs, successors, trustees and assigns of the other part. 

— Are you a strict it? says Joe. 

— Not taking anything between drinks, says I. 

— What about paying our respects to our friend? says Joe. 

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— Who? says I. Sure, he's out in John of God's off his head, poor man. 

— Drinking his own stuff? says Joe. 

— Ay, says I. Whisky and water on the brain 

— Come around to Barney Kiernan's, says Joe. I want to see the citizen. 

— Barney mavourneen's be it, says I. Anything strange or wonderful, Joe? 

— Not a word, says Joe. I was up at that meeting in the City Arms. 

— What was that, Joe? says I. 

— Cattle traders, says Joe, about the foot and mouth disease. I want to give the citizen the hard 
word about it. 

So we went around by the Linenhall barracks and the back of the courthouse talking of one thing or 
another. Decent fellow Joe when he has it but sure like that he never has it. Jesus, I couldn't get over 
that bloody foxy Geraghty, the daylight robber. For trading without a licence, says he. 

In Inisfail the fair there lies a land, the land of holy Michan There rises a watchtower beheld of men 
afar. There sleep the mighty dead as in life they slept, warriors and princes of high renown. A pleasant 
land it is in sooth of murmuring waters, fishful streams where sport the gurnard, the plaice, the roach, 
the halibut, the gibbed haddock, the grilse, the dab, the brill, the flounder, the pollock, the mixed 
coarse fish generally and other denizens of the aqueous kingdom too numerous to be enumerated. In 
the mild breezes of the west and of the east the lofty trees wave in different directions their firstclass 
foliage, the wafty sycamore, the Lebanonian cedar, the exalted planetree, the eugenic eucalyptus and 
other ornaments of the arboreal world with which that region is thoroughly well supplied. Lovely 
maidens sit in close proximity to the roots of the lovely trees singing the most lovely songs while they 
play with all kinds of lovely objects as for example golden ingots, silvery fishes, crans of herrings, 
drafts of eels, codlings, creels of fingerlings, purple seagems and playful insects. And heroes voyage 
from afar to woo them, from Eblana to Slievemargy, the peerless princes of unfettered Munster and of 
Connacht the just and of smooth sleek Leinster and of Cruahan's land and of Armagh the splendid and 
of the noble district of Boyle, princes, the sons of kings. 

And there rises a shining palace whose crystal glittering roof is seen by mariners who traverse the 
extensive sea in barks built expressly for that purpose, and thither come all herds and failings and 
firstfruits of that land for O'Connell Fitzsimon takes toll of them, a chieftain descended from chieftains. 
Thither the extreme fy large wains bring foison of the fields, flaskets of cauliflowers, floats of spinach, 
pineapple chunks, Rangoon beans, strikes of tomatoes, drums of figs, drills of Swedes, spherical 
potatoes and tallies of iridescent kale, York and Savoy, and trays of onions, pearls of the earth, and 
punnets of mushrooms and custard marrows and fat vetches and bere and rape and red green yellow 
brown russet sweet big bitter ripe pomellated apples and chips of strawberries and sieves of 
gooseberries, pulpy and pehirious, and strawberries fit for princes and raspberries from their canes. 

I dare him, says he, and I doubledare him Come out here, Geraghty, you notorious bloody hill and 
dale robber! 

And by that way wend the herds innumerable of bellwethers and flushed ewes and shearling rams 
and lambs and stubble geese and medium steers and roaring mares and polled calves and longwoods 
and storesheep and Cufle's prime springers and culls and sowpigs and baconhogs and the various 
different varieties of highly distinguished swine and Angus heifers and pofty bulllocks of immaculate 
pedigree together with prime premkted milchcows and beeves: and there is ever heard a trampling, 
cackling, roaring, lowing, bleating, bellowing, rumbling, grunting, champing, chewing, of sheep and pigs 
and heavyhooved kine from pasturelands of Lusk and Rush and Carrickmines and from the streamy 

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vales of Thomond, from the M'Gillicuddy's reeks the inaccessible and lordly Shannon the 
unfathomable, and from the gentle declivities of the place of the race of Kiar, their udders distended 
with superabundance of milk and butts of butter and rennets of cheese and farmer's firkins and targets 
of lamb and crannocks of corn and oblong eggs in great hundreds, various in size, the agate with this 
dun. 

So we turned into Barney Kiernan's and there, sure enough, was the citizen up in the corner having 
a great confab with himself and that bloody mangy mongrel, Garryowen, and he waiting for what the 
sky would drop in the way of drink. 

— There he is, says I, in his gloryhole, with his cruiskeen lawn and his load of papers, working for 
the cause. 

The bloody mongrel let a grouse out of him would give you the creeps. Be a corporal work of 
mercy if someone would take the life of that bloody dog. I'm told for a fact he ate a good part of the 
breeches off a constabulary man in Santry that came round one time with a blue paper about a licence. 

— Stand and deliver, says he. 

— That's all right, citizen, says Joe. Friends here. 

— Pass, friends, says he. 

Then he rubs his hand in his eye and says he: 

— What's your opinion of the times? 

Doing the rapparee and Rory of the hill. But, begob, Joe was equal to the occasion. 

— I think the markets are on a rise, says he, sliding his hand down his fork. 

So begob the citizen claps his paw on his knee and he says: 

— Foreign wars is the cause of it. 

And says Joe, sticking his thumb in his pocket: 

— It's the Russians wish to tyrannise. 

— Arrah, give over your bloody codding, Joe, says I. I've a thirst on me I wouldn't sell for half a 
crown. 

— Give it a name, citizen, says Joe. 

— Wine of the country, says he. 

— What's yours? says Joe. 

— Ditto MacAnaspey, says I. 

— Three pints, Terry, says Joe. And how's the old heart, citizen? says he. 

— Never better, a chara, says he. What Garry? Are we going to win? Eh? 

And with that he took the bloody old towser by the scruff of the neck and, by Jesus, he near 
throttled him 

The figure seated on a large boulder at the foot of a round tower was that of a broadshouldered 
deepchested stronglimbed frankeyed redhaired freeryfreckled shaggybearded widemouthed 
largenosed longheaded deepvoiced barekneed brawnyhanded hairylegged ruddyfaced sinewyarmed 

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hero. From shoulder to shoulder he measured several ells and his rocklike mountainous knees were 
covered, as was likewise the rest of his body wherever visible, with a strong growth of tawny prickly 
hair in hue and toughness similar to the mountain gorse {Ulex Europeus). The widewinged nostrils, 
from which bristles of the same tawny hue projected, were of such capaciousness that within their 
cavernous obscurity the fieldlark might easily have lodged her nest. The eyes in which a tear and a 
smile strove ever for the mastery were of the dimensions of a goodsized cauliflower. A powerful 
current of warm breath issued at regular intervals from the profound cavity of his mouth while in 
rhythmic resonance the loud strong hale reverberations of his formidable heart thundered rumblingfy 
causing the ground, the summit of the lofty tower and the still loftier walls of the cave to vibrate and 
tremble. 

He wore a long unsleeved garment of recently frayed oxhide reaching to the knees in a loose kilt 
and this was bound about his middle by a girdle of plaited straw and rushes. Beneath this he wore 
trews of deerskin, roughly stitched with gut. His nether extremities were encased in high Balbriggan 
buskins dyed in lichen purple, the feet being shod with brogues of salted cowhide laced with the 
windpipe of the same beast. From his girdle hung a row of seastones which jangled at every 
movement of his portentous frame and on these were graven with rude yet striking art the tribal images 
of many Irish heroes and heroines of antiquity, Cuchulin, Conn of hundred battles, Niall of nine 
hostages, Brian ofKincora, the ardri Malachi, Art MacMurragh, Shane O'Neill, Father John Murphy, 
Owen Roe, Patrick Sarsfield, Red Hugh O'Donnell, Red Jim MacDermott, Soggarth Eoghan 
O'Growney, Michael Dwyer, Francy Higgins, Henry Joy M'Cracken, Goliath, Horace Wheatley, 
Thomas Conneff, Peg Woffrngton, the Village Blacksmith, Captain Moonlight, Captain Boycott, Dante 
Alighieri, Christopher Columbus, S. Fursa, S. Brendan, Marshal MacMahon, Charlemagne, Theobald 
Wolfe Tone, the Mother of the Maccabees, the Last of the Mohicans, the Rose of Castile, the Man 
for Gahvay, The Man that Broke the Bank at Monte Carlo, The Man in the Gap, The Woman Who 
Didn't, Benjamin Franklin, Napoleon Bonaparte, John L. Sullivan, Cleopatra, Savourneen Deelish, 
Julius Caesar, Paracelsus, sir Thomas Lipton, William Tell, Michelangelo Hayes, Muhammad, the 
Bride of Lammermoor, Peter the Hermit, Peter the Packer, Dark Rosaleen, Patrick W. Shakespeare, 
Brian Confucius, Murtagh Gutenberg, Patricio Velasquez, Captain Nemo, Tristan and Isolde, the first 
Prince of Wales, Thomas Cook and Son, the Bold Soldier Boy, Arrah na Pogue, Dick Turpin, 
Ludwig Beethoven, the Colleen Bawn, Waddler Heafy, Angus the Culdee, Dolly Mount, Sidney 
Parade, Ben Howth, Valentine Greatrakes, Adam and Eve, Arthur Wellesley, Boss Croker, 
Herodotus, Jack the Giantkiller, Gautama Buddha, Lady Godiva, The Lily of Killarney, Balor of the 
Evil Eye, the Queen of Sheba, Acky Nagle, Joe Nagle, Alessandro Volta, Jeremiah O'Donovan 
Rossa, Don Philip O'Sullivan Beare. A couched spear of acuminated granite rested by him while at his 
feet reposed a savage animal of the canine tribe whose stertorous gasps announced that he was sunk 
in uneasy slumber, a supposition confirmed by hoarse growls and spasmodic movements which his 
master repressed from time to time by tranquilising blows of a mighty cudgel rudely fashioned out of 
paleolithic stone. 

So anyhow Terry brought the three pints Joe was standing and begob the sight nearly left my eyes 
when I saw him land out a quid O, as true as I'm telling you A goodlooking sovereign. 

— And there's more where that came from, says he. 

— Were you robbing the poorbox, Joe? says I. 

— Sweat of my brow, says Joe. 'Twas the prudent member gave me the wheeze. 

— I saw him before I met you, says I, sloping around by Pill lane and Greek street with his cod's 
eye counting up all the guts of the fish 

Who comes through Michan's land, bedight in sable armour? O'Bloom, the son of Rory: it is he. 
Impervious to fear is Rory's son: he of the prudent souL 

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— For the old woman of Prince's street, says the citizen, the subsidised organ. The pledgebound 
party on the floor of the house. And look at this blasted rag, says he. Look at this, says he. The Irish 
Independent, if you please, founded by Parnellto be the workingman's friend. Listen to the births and 
deaths in the Irish all for Ireland Independent, and I'll thank you and the marriages. 

And he starts reading them out: 

— Gordon, Barnfield crescent, Exeter; Redmayne of Iffley, Saint Anne's on Sea: the wife of William 
T Redmayne of a son. How's that, eh? Wright and Flint, Vincent and Gillett to Rotha Marion daughter 
of Rosa and the late George Alfred Gillett, 179 Claphamroad, Stockwell, Playwood and Ridsdale at 
Saint Jude's, Kensington by the very reverend Dr Forrest, dean of Worcester. Eh? Deaths. Bristow, 
at Whitehall lane, London: Carr, Stoke Newington, of gastritis and heart disease: Cockburn, at the 
Moat house, Chepstow... 

— I know that fellow, says Joe, from bitter experience. 

— Cockburn. Dimsey, wife of David Dimsey, late of the admiralty: Miller, Tottenham, aged 
eightyfive: Welsh June 12, at 35 Canning street, Liverpool, Isabella Helen. How's that for a national 
press, eh my brown son! How's that for Martin Murphy, the Bantry jobber? 

— Ah, well, says Joe, handing round the boose. Thanks be to God they had the start of us. Drink 
that, citizen. 

— I will, says he, honourable person. 

— Health, Joe, says I. And all down the form 

Ah! Ow! Don't be talking! I was blue mouldy for the want of that pint. Declare to God I could hear 
it hit the pit of my stomach with a click. 

And lo, as they quaffed their cup of joy, a godlike messenger came swiftly in, radiant as the eye of 
heaven, a comely youth and behind him there passed an elder of noble gait and countenance, bearing 
the sacred scrolls of law and with him his lady wife a dame of peerless lineage, fairest of her race. 

Little Alf Bergan popped in round the door and hid behind Barney's snug, squeezed up with the 
laughing. And who was sitting up there in the corner that I hadn't seen snoring drunk blind to the world 
only Bob Doran I didn't know what was up and Alf kept making signs out of the door. And begob 
what was it only that bloody old pantaloon Denis Breen in his bathslippers with two bloody big books 
tucked under his oxter and the wife hotfoot after him, unfortunate wretched woman, trotting like a 
poodle. I thought Alf would split. 

— Look at him, says he. Breen. He's traipsing all round Dublin with a postcard someone sent him 
with U. p: up on it to take a li . . 

And he doubled up. 

— Take a what? says I. 

— Libel action, says he, for ten thousand pounds. 

— O hell! says I. 

The bloody mongrel began to growl that'd put the fear of God in you seeing something was up but 
the citizen gave him a kick in the ribs. 

— Bi i dho husht, says he. 

— Who? says Joe. 

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— Breen, says Alf He was in John Henry Mentorfs and then he went round to Collis and Ward's 
and then Tom Rochford met him and sent him round to the subsheriffs for a lark. O God, I've a pain 
laughing. U. p: up. The long fellow gave him an eye as good as a process and now the bloody old 
lunatic is gone round to Green street to look for a G man. 

— When is long John going to hang that fellow in Mountjoy? says Joe. 

— Bergan, says Bob Doran, waking up. Is that Alf Bergan? 

— Yes, says Alf Hanging? Wait till I show you. Here, Terry, give us a pony. That bloody old fool! 
Ten thousand pounds. You should have seen long John's eye. U. p... 

And he started laughing. 

— Who are you laughing at? says Bob Doran Is that Bergan? 

— Hurry up, Terry boy, says Alf 

Terence O'Ryan heard him and straightway brought him a crystal cup full of the foamy ebon ale 
which the noble twin brothers Bungiveagh and Bungardilaun brew ever in their divine alevats, cunning 
as the sons of deathless Leda. For they gamer the succulent berries of the hop and mass and sift and 
bruise and brew them and they mix therewith sour juices and bring the must to the sacred fire and 
cease not night or day from their toil, those cunning brothers, lords of the vat. 

Then did you, chivalrous Terence, hand forth, as to the manner bom, that nectarous beverage and 
you offered the crystal cup to him that thirsted, the soul of chivalry, in beauty akin to the immortals. 

But he, the young chief of the O'Bergan's, could ill brook to be outdone in generous deeds but gave 
therefor with gracious gesture a testoon of costliest bronze. Thereon embossed in excellent smithwork 
was seen the image of a queen of regal port, scion of the house of Brunswick, Victoria her name, Her 
Most Excellent Majesty, by grace of God of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland and of 
the British dominions beyond the sea, queen, defender of the faith, Empress of India, even she, who 
bore rule, a victress over many peoples, the wellbeloved, for they knew and loved her from the rising 
of the sun to the going down thereof, the pale, the dark, the ruddy and the ethiop. 

— What's that bloody freemason doing, says the citizen, prowling up and down outside? 

— What's that? says Joe. 

— Here you are, says Alf, chucking out the rhino. Talking about hanging, I'll show you something 
you never saw. Hangmen's letters. Look at here. 

So he took a bundle of wisps of letters and envelopes out of his pocket. 

— Are you codding? says I. 

— Honest injun, says Alf Read them. 

So Joe took up the letters. 

— Who are you laughing at? says Bob Doran 

So I saw there was going to be a bit of a dust Bob's a queer chap when the porter's up in him so 
says I just to make talk: 

— How's Willy Murray those times, Alf? 

— I don't know, says Alf I saw him just now in Capel street with Paddy Dignam Only I was 
running after that. . . 

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— You what? says Joe, throwing down the letters. With who? 

— With Dignam, says Alf 

— Is it Paddy? says Joe. 

—Yes, says Alf Why? 

— Don't you know he's dead? says Joe. 

— Paddy Dignam dead! says Alf 

— Ay, says Joe. 

— Sure I'm after seeing him not five minutes ago, says Alf, as plain as a pikestaff 

— Who's dead? says Bob Doran 

— You saw his ghost then, says Joe, God between us and harm. 

— What? says Alf Good Christ, only five... What?... And Willy Murray with him, the two of them 
there near whatdoyoucallhim's... What? Dignam dead? 

— What about Dignam? says Bob Doran Who's talking about...? 

— Dead! says Alf He's no more dead than you are. 

— Maybe so, says Joe. They took the liberty of burying him this morning anyhow. 

— Paddy? says Alf 

— Ay, says Joe. He paid the debt of nature, God be merciful to him 

— Good Christ! says Alf 

Begob he was what you might call flabbergasted. 

In the darkness spirit hands were felt to flutter and when prayer by tantras had been directed to the 
proper quarter a faint but increasing luminosity of ruby light became gradually visible, the apparition of 
the etheric double being particularly lifelike owing to the discharge of jivic rays from the crown of the 
head and face. Communication was effected through the pituitary body and also by means of the 
orangefiery and scarlet rays emanating from the sacral region and solar plexus. Questioned by his 
earthname as to his whereabouts in the heavenworld he stated that he was now on the path of pr 1 ya 
or return but was still submitted to trial at the hands of certain bloodthirsty entities on the lower astral 
levels. In reply to a question as to his first sensations in the great divide beyond he stated that 
previously he had seen as in a glass darkly but that those who had passed over had summit 
possibilities of atmic development opened up to them Interrogated as to whether life there resembled 
our experience in the flesh he stated that he had heard from more favoured beings now in the spirit that 
their abodes were equipped with every modem home comfort such as talafana, alavatar, hatakalda, 
wataklasat and that the highest adepts were steeped in waves of volupcy of the very purest nature. 
Having requested a quart of buttermilk this was brought and evidently afforded relief Asked if he had 
any message for the living he exhorted all who were still at the wrong side of Maya to acknowledge 
the true path for it was reported in devanic circles that Mars and Jupiter were out for mischief on the 
eastern angle where the ram has power. It was then queried whether there were any special desires on 
the part of the defunct and the reply was: We greet you, friends of earth, who are still in the body. 
Mind C. K. doesn't pile it on. It was ascertained that the reference was to Mr Cornelius Kelleher, 
manager of Messrs H. J. O'Neill's popular funeral establishment, a personal friend of the defunct, who 
had been responsible for the carrying out of the interment arrangements. Before departing he 

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requested that it should be told to his dear son Patsy that the other boot which he had been looking for 
was at present under the commode in the return room and that the pair should be sent to Cullen's to 
be soled only as the heels were still good. He stated that this had greatly perturbed his peace of mind 
in the other region and earnestly requested that his desire should be made known. 

Assurances were given that the matter would be attended to and it was intimated that this had given 
satisfaction. 

He is gone from mortal haunts: O'Dignam, sun of our morning. Fleet was his foot on the bracken: 
Patrick of the beamy brow. Wail, Banba, with your wind: and wail, O ocean, with your whirlwind. 

— There he is again, says the citizen, staring out. 

— Who? says I. 

— Bloom, says he. He's on point duty up and down there for the last ten minutes. 

And, begob, I saw his physog do a peep in and then slidder off again 

Little Alf was knocked bawways. Faith, he was. 

— Good Christ! says he. I could have sworn it was him 

And says Bob Doran, with the hat on the back of his poll, lowest blackguard in Dublin when he's 
under the influence: 

— Who said Christ is good? 

— I beg your parsnips, says Alf 

— Is that a good Christ, says Bob Doran, to take away poor little Willy Dignam? 

— Ah, well, says Alf, trying to pass it off He's over all his troubles. 

But Bob Doran shouts out of him 

— He's a bloody ruffian, I say, to take away poor little Willy Dignam 

Terry came down and tipped him the wink to keep quiet, that they didn't want that kind of talk in a 
respectable licensed premises. And Bob Doran starts doing the weeps about Paddy Dignam, true as 
you're there. 

— The finest man, says he, snivelling, the finest purest character. 

The tear is bloody near your eye. Talking through his bloody hat. Fitter for him go home to the little 
sleepwalking bitch he married, Mooney, the bumbailiffs daughter, mother kept a kip in Hardwicke 
street, that used to be stravaging about the landings Bantam Lyons told me that was stopping there at 
two in the morning without a stitch on her, exposing her person, open to all comers, fair field and no 
favour. 

— The noblest, the truest, says he. And he's gone, poor little Willy, poor little Paddy Dignam 

And mournful and with a heavy heart he bewept the extinction of that beam of heaven. 

Old Garryowen started growling again at Bloom that was skeezing round the door. 

— Come in, come on, he won't eat you, says the citizen. 

So Bloom slopes in with his cod's eye on the dog and he asks Terry was Martin Cunningham there. 

— O, Christ M'Keown, says Joe, reading one of the letters. Listen to this, will you? 

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And he starts reading out one. 

7 Hunter Street, Liverpool. To the High Sheriff of Dublin, Dublin. 

Honoured sir i beg to offer my services in the abov ementioned painful case i hanged Joe 
Gann in Bootlejail on the 12 ofFebuary 1900 and i hanged... 

— Show us, Joe, says I. 

— ... private Arthur Chace for fowl murder of Jessie Tilsit in Pentonville prison and i was 
assistant when... 

— Jesus, says I. 

— ... Billington executed the awful murderer Toad Smith... 

The citizen made a grab at the letter. 

— Hold hard, says Joe, i have a special nack of putting the noose once in he can't get out 
hoping to be favoured i remain, honoured sir, my terms is five ginnees. 

H RUMBOLD, MASTER BARBER. 

— And a barbarous bloody barbarian he is too, says the citizen. 

— And the dirty scrawl of the wretch says Joe. Here, says he, take them to hell out of my sight, 
Alf Hello, Bloom, says he, what will you have? 

So they started arguing about the point, Bloom saying he wouldn't and he couldn't and excuse him 
no offence and all to that and then he said well he'd just take a cigar. Gob, he's a prudent member and 
no mistake. 

— Give us one of your prime stinkers, Terry, says Joe. 

And Alf was telling us there was one chap sent in a mourning card with a black border round it. 

— They're all barbers, says he, from the black country that would hang their own fathers for five 
quid down and travelling expenses. 

And he was telling us there's two fellows waiting below to pull his heels down when he gets the 
drop and choke him properly and then they chop up the rope after and sell the bits for a few bob a 
skull. 

In the dark land they bide, the vengeful knights of the razor. Their deadly coil they grasp: yea, and 
therein they lead to Erebus whatsoever wight hath done a deed of blood for I will on nowise suffer it 
even so saith the Lord. 

So they started talking about capital punishment and of course Bloom comes out with the why and 
the wherefore and all the codology of the business and the old dog smelling him all the time I'm told 
those jewies does have a sort of a queer odour coming off them for dogs about I don't know what all 
deterrent effect and so forth and so on. 

— There's one thing it hasn't a deterrent effect on, says Alf 

— What's that? says Joe. 

— The poor bugger's tool that's being hanged, says Alf 

— That so? says Joe. 

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— God's truth, says Alf I heard that from the head warder that was in 

Kilmainham when they hanged Joe Brady, the invincible. He told me when they cut him down after 
the drop it was standing up in their feces like a poker. 

— Ruling passion strong in death, says Joe, as someone said. 

— That can be explained by science, says Bloom It's only a natural phenomenon, don't you see, 
because on account of the... 

And then he starts with his jawbreakers about phenomenon and science and this phenomenon and 
the other phenomenon. 

The distinguished scientist Herr Professor Luitpold BLimenduft tendered medical evidence to the 
effect that the instantaneous fracture of the cervical vertebrae and consequent scission of the spinal 
cord would, according to the best approved tradition of medical science, be calculated to inevitably 
produce in the human subject a violent ganglionic stimulus of the nerve centres of the genital apparatus, 
thereby causing the elastic pores of the corpora cavernosa to rapidly dilate in such a way as to 
instantaneously facilitate the flow of blood to that part of the human anatomy known as the penis or 
male organ resulting in the phenomenon which has been denominated by the faculty a morbid upwards 
and outwards philoprogenitive erection in articulo mortis per diminutionem capitis. 

So of course the citizen was only waiting for the wink of the word and he starts gassing out of him 
about the invincibles and the old guard and the men of sixtyseven and who fears to speak of 
ninetyeight and Joe with him about all the fellows that were hanged, drawn and transported for the 
cause by drumhead courtmartial and a new Ireland and new this, that and the other. Talking about 
new Ireland he ought to go and get a new dog so he ought. Mangy ravenous brute sniffing and 
sneezing all round the place and scratching his scabs. And round he goes to Bob Doran that was 
standing Alfa half one sucking up for what he could get. So of course Bob Doran starts doing the 
bloody fool with him 

— Give us the paw! Give the paw, doggy! Good old doggy! Give the paw here! Give us the paw! 

Arrah, bloody end to the paw he'd paw and Alf trying to keep him from tumbling off the bloody 
stool atop of the bloody old dog and he talking all kinds of drivel about training by kindness and 
thoroughbred dog and intelligent dog: give you the bloody pip. Then he starts scraping a few bits of 
old biscuit out of the bottom of a Jacobs' tin he told Terry to bring. Gob, he golloped it down like old 
boots and his tongue hanging out of him a yard long for more. Near ate the tin and all, hungry bloody 
mongreL 

And the citizen and Bloom having an argument about the point, the brothers Sheares and Wolfe 
Tone beyond on Arbour Hill and Robert Emmet and die for your country, the Tommy Moore touch 
about Sara Curran and she's fer from the land. And Bloom, of course, with his knockmedown cigar 
putting on swank with his lardy fece. Phenomenon! The fet heap he married is a nice old phenomenon 
with a back on her like a ballalley. Time they were stopping up in the City Arms pisser Burke told me 
there was an old one there with a cracked loodheramaun of a nephew and Bloom trying to get the soft 
side of her doing the mollycoddle playing bezique to come in for a bit of the wampum in her will and 
not eating meat of a Friday because the old one was always thumping her craw and taking the lout out 
for a walk. And one time he led him the rounds of Dublin and, by the holy farmer, he never cried 
crack till he brought him home as drunk as a boiled owl and he said he did it to teach him the evils of 
alcohol and by herrings, if the three women didn't near roast him, it's a queer story, the old one, 
Bloom's wife and Mrs O'Dowd that kept the hoteL Jesus, I had to laugh at pisser Burke taking them 
off chewing the fet. And Bloom with his but don't you see? and but on the other hand. And sure, 
more be token, the lout I'm told was in Power's after, the blender's, round in Cope street going home 
footless in a cab five times in the week after drinking his way through all the samples in the bloody 

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establishment. Phenomenon! 

— The memory of the dead, says the citizen taking up his pintglass and glaring at Bloom 

— Ay, ay, says Joe. 

— You don't grasp my point, says Bloom What I mean is... 

— Sinn Fein! says the citizen. Sinn Fein amhain! The friends we love are by our side and the foes 
we hate before us. 

The last farewell was affecting in the extreme. From the belfries far and near the funereal deathbell 
tolled unceasingly while all around the gloomy precincts rolled the ominous warning of a hundred 
muffled drums punctuated by the hollow booming of pieces of ordnance. The deafening claps of 
thunder and the dazzling flashes of lightning which lit up the ghastly scene testified that the artillery of 
heaven had lent its supernatural pomp to the already gruesome spectacle. A torrential rain poured 
down from the floodgates of the angry heavens upon the bared heads of the assembled multitude 
which numbered at the lowest computation five hundred thousand persons. A posse of Dublin 
Metropolitan police superintended by the Chief Commissioner in person maintained order in the vast 
throng for whom the York street brass and reed band whiled away the intervening time by admirably 
rendering on their bkckdraped instruments the matchless melody endeared to us from the cradle by 
Speranza's plaintive muse. Special quick excursion trains and upholstered charabancs had been 
provided for the comfort of our country cousins of whom there were large contingents. Considerable 
amusement was caused by the favourite Dublin streetsingers L-n-h-n and M-ll-g-n who sang The 
Night before Larry was stretched in their usual mirth-provoking fashion Our two inimitable drolls 
did a roaring trade with their broadsheets among lovers of the comedy element and nobody who has a 
corner in his heart for real Irish fun without vulgarity will grudge them their hardearned pennies. The 
children of the Male and Female Foundling Hospital who thronged the windows overlooking the scene 
were delighted with this unexpected addition to the day's entertainment and a word of praise is due to 
the Little Sisters of the Poor for their excellent idea of affording the poor fatherless and motherless 
children a genuinely instructive treat. The viceregal houseparty which included many wellknown ladies 
was chaperoned by Their Excellencies to the most favourable positions on the grandstand while the 
picturesque foreign delegation known as the Friends of the Emerald Isle was accommodated on a 
tribune directly opposite. The delegation, present in full force, consisted of Commendatore Bacibaci 
Beninobenone (the semiparafysed doyen of the party who had to be assisted to his seat by the aid of a 
powerful steam crane), Monsieur Pierrepaul Petitepatant, the Grandjoker Vladinmire 
Pokethankertscheff, the Archjoker Leopold Rudolph von Schwanzenbad-Hodenthaler, Countess 
Marha Viraga Kisaszony Putrapesthi, Hiram Y. Bomboost, Count Athanatos Karamelopulos, AM 
Baba Backsheesh Rahat Lokum Effendi, Senor Hidalgo Caballero Don Pecadillo y Pakbras y 
Paternoster de k Malora de k Makrk, Hokopoko Harakiri, Hi Hung Chang, Okf Kobberkeddelsen, 
Mynheer Trik van Trumps, Pan Poleaxe Paddyrisky, Goosepond Prhklstr Kratchinabritchisitch, Bonis 
Hupinkoff, Herr Hurhausdirektorpresident Hans Chuechli-Steuerli, 

Nationalgymnasiummuseiimsanatoriumandsuspensoriumsordinaryprivatdoc 

generalhistoryspecklprofessordoctor Kriegfried Ueberallgemein. All the delegates without exception 
expressed themselves in the strongest possible heterogeneous terms concerning the nameless barbarity 
which they had been called upon to witness. An animated altercation (in which all took part) ensued 
among the F. O. T. E. I. as to whether the eighth or the ninth of March was the correct date of the 
birth of Ireknd's patron saint. In the course of the argument cannonballs, scimitars, boomerangs, 
blunderbusses, stinkpots, meatchoppers, umbrelks, catapults, knuckledusters, sandbags, lumps of pig 
iron were resorted to and blows were freely exchanged. The baby policeman, Constable MacFadden, 
summoned by speckl courier from Booterstown, quickly restored order and with lightning 
promptitude proposed the seventeenth of the month as a solution equally honourable for both 
contending parties. The readywitted ninefooter's suggestion at once appealed to all and was 

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unanimously accepted. Constable MacFadden was heartily congratulated by all the F.O.T.E.I., 
several of whom were bleeding profusely. Commendatore Beninobenone having been extricated from 
underneath the presidential armchair, it was explained by his legal adviser Awocato Pagamimi that the 
various articles secreted in his thirtytwo pockets had been abstracted by him during the affray from the 
pockets of his junior colleagues in the hope of bringing them to their senses. The objects (which 
included several hundred ladies' and gentlemen's gold and silver watches) were promptly restored to 
their rightful owners and general harmony reigned supreme. 

Quietly, unassumingfy Rumbold stepped on to the scaffold in faultless morning dress and wearing his 
favourite flower, the Gladiolus Cruentus. He announced his presence by that gentle Rumboldian 
cough which so many have tried (unsuccessfully) to imitate — short, painstaking yet withal so 
characteristic of the man. The arrival of the worldrenowned headsman was greeted by a roar of 
acclamation from the huge concourse, the viceregal ladies waving their handkerchiefs in their 
excitement while the even more excitable foreign delegates cheered vociferously in a medley of cries, 
hoch, banzai, eljen, zivio, chinchin, polla kronia, hiphip, vive, Allah, amid which the ringing 
evviva of the delegate of the land of song (a high double F recalling those piercingly lovely notes with 
which the eunuch Catalani beglamoured our greatgreatgrandmothers) was easily distinguishable. It was 
exactly seventeen o'clock. The signal for prayer was then promptly given by megaphone and in an 
instant all heads were bared, the commendatore's patriarchal sombrero, which has been in the 
possession of his family since the revolution of Rienzi, being removed by his medical adviser in 
attendance, Dr Pippi. The learned prelate who administered the last comforts of holy religion to the 
hero martyr when about to pay the death penalty knelt in a most christian spirit in a pool of rainwater, 
his cassock above his hoary head, and offered up to the throne of grace fervent prayers of 
supplication. Hand by the block stood the grim figure of the executioner, his visage being concealed in 
a tengallon pot with two circular perforated apertures through which his eyes glowered furiously. As 
he awaited the fatal signal he tested the edge of his horrible weapon by honing it upon his brawny 
forearm or decapitated in rapid succession a flock of sheep which had been provided by the admirers 
of his fell but necessary office. On a handsome mahogany table near him were neatly arranged the 
quartering knife, the various finely tempered disembowelling appliances (specially supplied by the 
worldfamous firm of cutlers, Messrs John Round and Sons, Sheffield), a terra cotta saucepan for the 
reception of the duodenum, colon, blind intestine and appendix etc when successfully extracted and 
two commodious milkjugs destined to receive the most precious blood of the most precious victim 
The housesteward of the amalgamated cats' and dogs' home was in attendance to convey these 
vessels when replenished to that beneficent institution. Quite an excellent repast consisting of rashers 
and eggs, fried steak and onions, done to a nicety, delicious hot breakfast rolls and invigorating tea 
had been considerately provided by the authorities for the consumption of the central figure of the 
tragedy who was in capital spirits when prepared for death and evinced the keenest interest in the 
proceedings from beginning to end but he, with an abnegation rare in these our times, rose nobly to the 
occasion and expressed the dying wish (immediately acceded to) that the meal should be divided in 
aliquot parts among the members of the sick and indigent roomkeepers' association as a token of his 
regard and esteem The nee and non plus ultra of emotion were reached when the blushing bride 
elect burst her way through the serried ranks of the bystanders and flung herself upon the muscular 
bosom of him who was about to be launched into eternity for her sake. The hero folded her willowy 
form in a loving embrace murmuring fondly Sheila, my own. Encouraged by this use of her christian 
name she kissed passionate ry all the various suitable areas of his person which the decencies of prison 
garb permitted her ardour to reach. She swore to him as they mingled the salt streams of their tears 
that she would ever cherish his memory, that she would never forget her hero boy who went to his 
death with a song on his lips as if he were but going to a hurling match in Clonturk park. She brought 
back to his recollection the happy days of blissful childhood together on the banks of Anna Liffey 
when they had indulged in the innocent pastimes of the young and, oblivious of the dreadful present, 
they both laughed heartily, all the spectators, including the venerable pastor, joining in the general 
merriment. That monster audience simply rocked with delight. But anon they were overcome with grief 

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and clasped their hands for the last time. A fresh torrent of tears burst from their lachrymal ducts and 
the vast concourse of people, touched to the inmost core, broke into heartrending sobs, not the least 
affected being the aged prebendary himself Big strong men, officers of the peace and genial giants of 
the royal Irish constabulary, were making frank use of their handkerchiefs and it is safe to say that 
there was not a dry eye in that record assemblage. A most romantic incident occurred when a 
handsome young Oxford graduate, noted for his chivalry towards the fair sex, stepped forward and, 
presenting his visiting card, bankbook and genealogical tree, solicited the hand of the hapless young 
lady, requesting her to name the day, and was accepted on the spot. Every lady in the audience was 
presented with a tasteful souvenir of the occasion in the shape of a skull and crossbones brooch, a 
timely and generous act which evoked a fresh outburst of emotion: and when the gallant young 
Oxonian (the bearer, by the way, of one of the most timehonoured names in Albion's history) placed 
on the finger of his bhshing fiancee an expensive engagement ring with emeralds set in the form of a 
fourleaved shamrock the excitement knew no bounds. Nay, even the ster provostmarshal, 
lieutenantcolonel Tomkin-Maxwell ffrenchmullan Tomlinson, who presided on the sad occasion, he 
who had blown a considerable number of sepoys from the cannonmouth without flinching, could not 
now restrain his natural emotion. With his mailed gauntlet he brushed away a furtive tear and was 
overheard, by those privileged burghers who happened to be in his immediate entourage, to murmur 
to himself in a faltering undertone: 

— God blimey if she aint a clinker, that there bleeding tart. Blimey it makes me kind of bleeding cry, 
straight, it does, when I sees her cause I thinks of my old mashtub what's waiting for me down 
Limehouse way. 

So then the citizen begins talking about the Irish language and the corporation meeting and all to that 
and the shoneens that can't speak their own language and Joe chipping in because he stuck someone 
for a quid and Bloom putting in his old goo with his twopenny stump that he cadged off of Joe and 
talking about the Gaelic league and the antitreating league and drink, the curse of Ireland. Antitreating 
is about the size of it. Gob, he'd let you pour all manner of drink down his throat till the Lord would 
call him before you'd ever see the froth of his pint. And one night I went in with a fellow into one of 
their musical evenings, song and dance about she could get up on a truss of hay she could my 
Maureen Lay and there was a fellow with a Balryhoofy blue ribbon badge spiffing out of him in Irish 
and a lot of colleen bawns going about with temperance beverages and selling medals and oranges and 
lemonade and a few old dry buns, gob, flahoolagh entertainment, don't be talking. Ireland sober is 
Ireland free. And then an old fellow starts blowing into his bagpipes and all the gougers shuffling their 
feet to the tune the old cow died of And one or two sky pilots having an eye around that there was no 
goings on with the females, hitting below the belt. 

So howandever, as I was saying, the old dog seeing the tin was empty starts mousing around by 
Joe and me. I'd train him by kindness, so I would, if he was my dog. Give him a rousing fine kick now 
and again where it wouldn't blind him 

— Afraid he'll bite you? says the citizen, jeering. 

— No, says I. But he might take my leg for a lamppost. 

So he calls the old dog over. 

— What's on you, Garry? says he. 

Then he starts hauling and mauling and talking to him in Irish and the old towser growling, letting on 
to answer, like a duet in the opera. Such growling you never heard as they let off between them 
Someone that has nothing better to do ought to write a letter pro bono publico to the papers about 
the muzzling order for a dog the like of that. Growling and grousing and his eye all bloodshot from the 
drouth is in it and the hydrophobia dropping out of his jaws. 

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All those who are interested in the spread of human culture among the lower animals (and their 
name is legion) should make a point of not missing the really marvellous exhibition of cynanthropy 
given by the famous old Irish red setter wolfdog formerly known by the sobriquet of Garryowen and 
recently rechristened by his large circle of friends and acquaintances Owen Garry. The exhibition, 
which is the result of years of training by kindness and a carefully thoughtout dietary system, 
comprises, among other achievements, the recitation of verse. Our greatest living phonetic expert (wild 
horses shall not drag it from us!) has left no stone unturned in his efforts to defucidate and compare the 
verse recited and has found it bears a striking resemblance (the italics are ours) to the ranns of ancient 
Celtic bards. We are not speaking so much of those delightful lovesongs with which the writer who 
conceals his identity under the graceful pseudonym of the Little Sweet Branch has familiarised the 
bookloving world but rather (as a contributor D. O. C. points out in an interesting communication 
published by an evening contemporary) of the harsher and more personal note which is found in the 
satirical effusions of the famous Raftery and of Donal MacConsidine to say nothing of a more modern 
lyrist at present very much in the public eye. We subjoin a specimen which has been rendered into 
English by an eminent scholar whose name for the moment we are not at liberty to disclose though we 
believe that our readers will find the topical allusion rather more than an indication. The metrical system 
of the canine original, which recalls the intricate alliterative and isosyllabic rules of the Welsh engryn, is 
infinitely more complicated but we believe our readers will agree that the spirit has been well caught. 
Perhaps it should be added that the effect is greatly increased if Owen's verse be spoken somewhat 
slowly and indistinctly in a tone suggestive of suppressed rancour. 

The curse of my curses 
Seven days every day 
And seven dry Thursdays 
On you, Barney Kiernan, 
Has no sup of water 
To cool my courage, 
And my guts red roaring 
After Lowry's lights. 

So he told Terry to bring some water for the dog and, gob, you could hear him lapping it up a mile 
off And Joe asked him would he have another. 

— I will, says he, a chara, to show there's no ill feeling. 

Gob, he's not as green as he's cabbagelooking. Arsing around from one pub to another, leaving it to 
your own honour, with old Giltrap's dog and getting fed up by the ratepayers and corporators. 
Entertainment for man and beast. And says Joe: 

— Could you make a hole in another pint? 

— Could a swim duck? says I. 

— Same again, Terry, says Joe. Are you sure you won't have anything in the way of liquid 
refreshment? says he. 

— Thank you, no, says Bloom As a matter of fact I just wanted to meet Martin Cunningham, don't 
you see, about this insurance of poor Digram's. Martin asked me to go to the house. You see, he, 
Dignam, I mean, didn't serve any notice of the assignment on the company at the time and nominally 
under the act the mortgagee can't recover on the policy. 

— Holy Wars, says Joe, laughing, that's a good one if old Shylock is landed. So the wife comes out 
top dog, what? 

— Well, that's a point, says Bloom, for the wife's admirers. 

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— Whose admirers? says Joe. 

— The wife's advisers, I mean, says Bloom 

Then he starts all contused mucking it up about mortgagor under the act like the lord chancellor 
giving it out on the bench and for the benefit of the wife and that a trust is created but on the other 
hand that Dignam owed Bridgeman the money and if now the wife or the widow contested the 
mortgagee's right till he near had the head of me addled with his mortgagor under the act. He was 
bloody safe he wasn't run in himself under the act that time as a rogue and vagabond only he had a 
friend in court. Selling bazaar tickets or what do you call it royal Hungarian privileged lottery. True as 
you're there. O, commend me to an israelite! Royal and privileged Hungarian robbery. 

So Bob Doran comes lurching around asking Bloom to tell Mrs Dignam he was sorry for her 
trouble and he was very sorry about the funeral and to tell her that he said and everyone who knew 
him said that there was never a truer, a finer than poor little Willy that's dead to tell her. Choking with 
bloody foolery. And shaking Bloom's hand doing the tragic to tell her that. Shake hands, brother. 
You're a rogue and I'm another. 

— Let me, said he, so far presume upon our acquaintance which, however slight it may appear if 
judged by the standard of mere time, is founded, as I hope and believe, on a sentiment of mutual 
esteem as to request of you this favour. But, should I have overstepped the limits of reserve let the 
sincerity of my feelings be the excuse for my boldness. 

— No, rejoined the other, I appreciate to the full the motives which actuate your conduct and I shall 
discharge the office you entrust to me consoled by the reflection that, though the errand be one of 
sorrow, this proof ofyour confidence sweetens in some measure the bitterness of the cup. 

— Then suffer me to take your hand, said he. The goodness ofyour heart, I feel sure, will dictate to 
you better than my inadequate words the expressions which are most suitable to convey an emotion 
whose poignancy, were I to give vent to my feelings, would deprive me even of speech. 

And off with him and out trying to walk straight. Boosed at five o'clock. Night he was near being 
lagged only Paddy Leonard knew the bobby, 14A. Blind to the world up in a shebeen in Bride street 
after closing time, fornicating with two shawls and a bully on guard, drinking porter out of teacups. 
And calling himself a Frenchy for the shawls, Joseph Manuo, and talking against the Catholic religion, 
and he serving mass in Adam and Eve's when he was young with his eyes shut, who wrote the new 
testament, and the old testament, and hugging and smugging. And the two shawls killed with the 
laughing, picking his pockets, the bloody fool and he spilling the porter all over the bed and the two 
shawls screeching laughing at one another. How is your testament? Have you got an old 
testament? Only Paddy was passing there, I tell you what. Then see him of a Sunday with his little 
concubine of a wife, and she wagging her tail up the aisle of the chapel with her patent boots on her, 
no less, and her violets, nice as pie, doing the little lady. Jack Mooneys sister. And the old prostitute 
of a mother procuring rooms to street couples. Gob, Jack made him toe the line. Told him if he didn't 
patch up the pot, Jesus, he'd kick the shite out of him 

So Terry brought the three pints. 

— Here, says Joe, doing the honours. Here, citizen. 

— Slan leaf, says he. 

— Fortune, Joe, says I. Good health, citizen. 

Gob, he had his mouth half way down the tumbler already. Want a small fortune to keep him in 
drinks. 

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— Who is the long fellow running for the mayoralty, Alf? says Joe. 

— Friend of yours, says Alf 

— Nannan? says Joe. The mimber? 

— I won't mention any names, says Alf 

— I thought so, says Joe. I saw him up at that meeting now with William Field, M. P., the cattle 
traders. 

— Hairy Iopas, says the citizen, that exploded volcano, the darling of all countries and the idol of his 
own. 

So Joe starts telling the citizen about the foot and mouth disease and the cattle traders and taking 
action in the matter and the citizen sending them all to the rightabout and Bloom coming out with his 
sheepdip for the scab and a hoose drench for coughing calves and the guaranteed remedy for timber 
tongue. Because he was up one time in a knacker's yard. Walking about with his book and pencil 
here's my head and my heels are coming till Joe Cuffe gave him the order of the boot for giving lip to a 
grazier. Mister KnowalL Teach your grandmother how to milk ducks. Pisser Burke was telling me in 
the hotel the wife used to be in rivers of tears some times with Mrs O'Dowd crying her eyes out with 
her eight inches of fat all over her. Couldn't loosen her farting strings but old cod's eye was waltzing 
around her showing her how to do it. What's your programme today? Ay. Humane methods. Because 
the poor animals suffer and experts say and the best known remedy that doesn't cause pain to the 
animal and on the sore spot administer gently. Gob, he'd have a soft hand under a hen. 

Ga Ga Gara. Klook Klook Klook. Black Liz is our hen. She lays eggs for us. When she lays her 
egg she is so glad. Gara. Klook Klook Klook. Then comes good uncle Leo. He puts his hand under 
black Liz and takes her fresh egg. Ga ga ga ga Gara. Klook Klook Klook. 

— Anyhow, says Joe, Field and Nannetti are going over tonight to London to ask about it on the 
floor of the house of commons. 

— Are you sure, says Bloom, the councillor is going? I wanted to see him, as it happens. 

— Weft, he's going off by the maiboat, says Joe, tonight. 

— That's too bad, says Bloom. I wanted particularly. Perhaps only Mr Field is going. I couldn't 
phone. No. You're sure? 

— Nannan's going too, says Joe. The league told him to ask a question tomorrow about the 
commissioner of police forbidding Irish games in the park. What do you think of that, citizen? The 
Sluagh na h-Eireann. 

Mr Cowe Conacre (Mulifarnham Nat.): Arising out of the question of my honourable friend, the 
member for Shillelagh, may I ask the right honourable gentleman whether the government has issued 
orders that these animals shall be slaughtered though no medical evidence is forthcoming as to their 
pathological condition? 

Mr Allfours (Tamoshant. Con.): Honourable members are already in possession of the evidence 
produced before a committee of the whole house. I feel I cannot usefully add anything to that. The 
answer to the honourable member's question is in the affirmative. 

Mr Orelli O'Reilly (Montenotte. Nat.): Have similar orders been issued for the slaughter of human 
animals who dare to play Irish games in the Phoenix park? 

Mr Allfours: The answer is in the negative. 

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Mr Cowe Conacre: Has the right honourable gentleman's famous Mitchelstown telegram inspired 
the policy of gentlemen on the Treasury bench? (O ! O !) 

Mr Allfours: I must have notice of that question. 

Mr Staylewit (Buncombe. Ind.): Don't hesitate to shoot. 

(Ironical opposition cheers.) 

The speaker: Order! Order! 

(The house rises. Cheers.) 

— There's the man, says Joe, that made the Gaelic sports revival. There he is sitting there. The man 
that got away James Stephens. The champion of all Ireland at putting the sixteen pound shot. What 
was your best throw, citizen? 

— Na bacleis, says the citizen, letting on to be modest. There was a time I was as good as the next 
fellow anyhow. 

— Put it there, citizen, says Joe. You were and a bloody sight better. 

— Is that realty a fact? says Alf 

— Yes, says Bloom That's well known. Did you not know that? 

So off they started about Irish sports and shoneen games the like of lawn tennis and about hurley 
and putting the stone and racy of the soil and building up a nation once again and all to that. And of 
course Bloom had to have his say too about if a fellow had a rower's heart violent exercise was bad. I 
declare to my antimacassar if you took up a straw from the bloody floor and if you said to Bloom: 
Look at, Bloom. Do you see that straw? That's a straw. Declare to my aunt he'd talk about it for 
an hour so he would and talk steady. 

A most interesting discussion took place in the ancient hall of Brian O'ciarnain's in Sraid na 
Bretaine Bheag, under the auspices ofSluagh na h-Eireann, on the revival of ancient Gaelic sports 
and the importance of physical culture, as understood in ancient Greece and ancient Rome and ancient 
Ireland, for the development of the race. The venerable president of the noble order was in the chair 
and the attendance was of large dimensions. After an instructive discourse by the chairman, a 
magnificent oration eloquently and forcibly expressed, a most interesting and instructive discussion of 
the usual high standard of excellence ensued as to the desirability of the revivability of the ancient 
games and sports of our ancient Panceltic forefathers. The welknown and highly respected worker in 
the cause of our old tongue, Mr Joseph M'Carthy Hynes, made an eloquent appeal for the 
resuscitation of the ancient Gaelic sports and pastimes, practised morning and evening by Finn 
MacCool, as calculated to revive the best traditions of manly strength and prowess handed down to 
us from ancient ages. L. Bloom, who met with a mixed reception of applause and hisses, having 
espoused the negative the vocalist chairman brought the discussion to a close, in response to repeated 
requests and hearty plaudits from all parts of a bumper house, by a remarkably noteworthy rendering 
of the immortal Thomas Osborne Davis' evergreen verses (happily too familiar to need recalling here) 
A nation once again in the execution of which the veteran patriot champion may be said without fear 
of contradiction to have fairly excelled himself The Irish Caruso- Garibaldi was in superlative form and 
his stentorian notes were heard to the greatest advantage in the timehonoured anthem sung as only our 
citizen can sing it. His superb highclass vocalism, which by its superquality greatly enhanced his already 
international reputation, was vociferously applauded by the large audience among which were to be 
noticed many prominent members of the clergy as well as representatives of the press and the bar and 
the other learned professions. The proceedings then terminated. 

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Amongst the clergy present were the very rev. William Delany, S. J., L. L. D.; the rt rev. Gerald 
Molloy, D. D.; the rev. P. J. Kavanagh, C. S. Sp.; the rev. T. Waters, C. C; the rev. John M. Ivers, 
P. P.; the rev. P. J. Cleary, O. S. F.; the rev. L. J. Hickey, O. P.; the very rev. Fr. Nicholas, O. S. F. 
C; the very rev. B. Gorman, O. D. C; the rev. T. Maher, S. J.; the very rev. James Murphy, S. J.; 
the rev. John Lavery, V. F.; the very rev. William Doherty, D. D.; the rev. Peter Fagan, O. M.; the 
rev. T. Brangan, O. S. A.; the rev. J. Flavin, C. C; the rev. M. A. Hackett, C. C; the rev. W. 
Hurley, C. C; the rtrev Mgr M'Manus, V. G; the rev. B. R. Slattery, O. M. I.; the very rev. M. D. 
Scalry, P. P.; the rev. F. T. Purcell, O. P.; the very rev. Timothy canon Gorman, P. P.; the rev. J. 
Flanagan, C. C. The laity included P. Fay, T Quirke, etc., etc. 

— Talking about violent exercise, says Alf, were you at that Keogh- Bennett match? 

— No, says Joe. 

— I heard So and So made a cool hundred quid over it, says Alf 

— Who? Blazes? says Joe. 

And says Bloom: 

— What I meant about tennis, for example, is the agility and training the eye. 

— Ay, Blazes, says Alf He let out that Myler was on the beer to run up the odds and he swatting all 
the time. 

— We know him, says the citizen. The traitor's son. We know what put English gold in his pocket. 

— True for you, says Joe. 

And Bloom cuts in again about lawn tennis and the circulation of the blood, asking Alf: 

— Now, don't you think, Bergan? 

— Myler dusted the floor with him, says Alf Heenan and Sayers was only a bloody fool to it. 
Handed him the father and mother of a beating. See the little kipper not up to his navel and the big 
fellow swiping. God, he gave him one last puck in the wind, Queensberry rules and all, made him puke 
what he never ate. 

It was a historic and a hefty battle when Myler and Percy were scheduled to don the gloves for the 
purse of fifty sovereigns. Handicapped as he was by lack of poundage, Dublin's pet lamb made up for 
it by superlative skill in ringcraft. The final bout of fireworks was a gruelling for both champions. The 
welterweight sergeantmajor had tapped some lively claret in the previous mixup during which Keogh 
had been receivergeneral of rights and lefts, the artilleryman putting in some neat work on the pet's 
nose, and Myler came on looking groggy. The soldier got to business, leading off with a powerful left 
jab to which the Irish gladiator retaliated by shooting out a stiff one flush to the point of Bennett's jaw. 
The redcoat ducked but the Dubliner lifted him with a left hook, the body punch being a fine one. The 
men came to handigrips. Myler quickly became busy and got his man under, the bout ending with the 
bulkier man on the ropes, Myler punishing him The Englishman, whose right eye was nearly closed, 
took his corner where he was liberally drenched with water and when the bell went came on gamey 
and brimful of pluck, confident of knocking out the fistic Eblanite in jigtime. It was a fight to a finish 
and the best man for it. The two fought like tigers and excitement ran fever high The referee twice 
cautioned Pucking Percy for holding but the pet was tricky and his footwork a treat to watch. After a 
brisk exchange of courtesies during which a smart upper cut of the military man brought blood freely 
from his opponent's mouth the lamb suddenly waded in all over his man and landed a terrific left to 
Battling Bennett's stomach, flooring him flat. It was a knockout clean and clever. Amid tense 
expectation the Portobello bruiser was being counted out when Bennett's second Ole Pfotts Wettstein 

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threw in the towel and the Santry boy was declared victor to the frenzied cheers of the public who 
broke through the ringropes and fairly mobbed him with delight. 

— He knows which side his bread is buttered, says Alf I hear he's running a concert tour now up in 
the north. 

— He is, says Joe. Isn't he? 

— Who? says Bloom Ah, yes. That's quite true. Yes, a kind of summer tour, you see. Just a 
holiday. 

— Mrs B. is the bright particular star, isn't she? says Joe. 

— My wife? says Bloom She's singing, yes. I think it will be a success too. 

He's an excellent man to organise. Excellent. 

Hoho begob says I to myself says I. That explains the milk in the cocoanut and absence of hair on 
the animal's chest. Blazes doing the tootle on the flute. Concert tour. Dirty Dan the dodger's son off 
Island bridge that sold the same horses twice over to the government to fight the Boers. Old 
Whatwhat. I called about the poor and water rate, Mr Boykn. You what? The water rate, Mr Boylan 
You whatwhat? That's the bucko that'll organise her, take my tip. 'Twixt me and you Caddareesh. 

Pride of Calpe's rocky mount, the ravenhaired daughter of Tweedy. There grew she to peerless 
beauty where loquat and almond scent the air. The gardens of Alameda knew her step: the garths of 
olives knew and bowed. The chaste spouse of Leopold is she: Marion of the bountiful bosoms. 

And lo, there entered one of the clan of the O'Molfoys, a comely hero of white face yet withal 
somewhat ruddy, his majesty's counsel learned in the law, and with him the prince and heir of the 
noble line of Lambert. 

—Hello, Ned. 

—Hello, Alf 

— Hello, Jack. 

— Hello, Joe. 

— God save you, says the citizen. 

— Save you kindly, says J. J. What'll it be, Ned? 

— Half one, says Ned. 

So J. J. ordered the drinks. 

— Were you round at the court? says Joe. 

— Yes, says J. J. He'll square that, Ned, says he. 

— Hope so, says Ned. 

Now what were those two at? J. J. getting him off the grand jury list and the other give him a leg 
over the stile. With his name in Stubbs's. Playing cards, hobnobbing with flash toffs with a swank glass 
in their eye, adrinking fizz and he half smothered in writs and garnishee orders. Pawning his gold watch 
in Cummins of Francis street where no- one would know him in the private office when I was there 
with Pisser releasing his boots out of the pop. What's your name, sir? Dunne, says he. Ay, and done 
says I. Gob, he'll come home by weeping cross one of those days, I'm thinking. 

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— Did you see that bloody lunatic Breen round there? says Alf U. p: up. 

— Yes, says J. J. Looking for a private detective. 

— Ay, says Ned. And he wanted right go wrong to address the court only Corny Kelleher got 
round him telling him to get the handwriting examined first. 

— Ten thousand pounds, says Alf, laughing. God, I'd give anything to hear him before a judge and 
jury. 

— Was it you did it, Alf? says Joe. The truth the whole truth and nothing but the truth, so help you 
Jimmy Johnson. 

— Me? says Alf Don't cast your nasturtiums on my character. 

— Whatever statement you make, says Joe, will be taken down in evidence against you. 

— Of course an action would lie, says J. J. It implies that he is not compos mentis. U. p: up. 

— Compos your eye! says Alf, laughing. Do you know that he's balmy? Look at his head. Do you 
know that some mornings he has to get his hat on with a shoehorn. 

— Yes, says J. J., but the truth of a libel is no defence to an indictment for publishing it in the eyes of 
the law. 

— Ha ha, Alf, says Joe. 

— Still, says Bloom, on account of the poor woman, I mean his wife. 

— Pity about her, says the citizen. Or any other woman marries a half and half 

— How half and half? says Bloom Do you mean he... 

— Half and half I mean, says the citizen. A fellow that's neither fish nor flesh. 

— Nor good red herring, says Joe. 

— That what's I mean, says the citizen. A pishogue, if you know what that is. 

Begob I saw there was trouble coming. And Bloom explaining he meant on account of it being cruel 
for the wife having to go round after the old stuttering fooL Cruelty to animals so it is to let that bloody 
povertystricken Breen out on grass with his beard out tripping him, bringing down the rain. And she 
with her nose cockahoop after she married him because a cousin of his old fellow's was pewopener to 
the pope. Picture of him on the wall with his Smashall Sweeney's moustaches, the signior Brini from 
Summerhill, the eyetafryano, papal Zouave to the Holy Father, has left the quay and gone to Moss 
street. And who was he, tell us? A nobody, two pair back and passages, at seven shillings a week, 
and he covered with all kinds of breastplates bidding defiance to the world. 

— And moreover, says J. J., a postcard is publication. It was held to be sufficient evidence of 
malice in the testcase Sadgrove v. Hole. In my opinion an action might lie. 

Six and eightpence, please. Who wants your opinion? Let us drink our pints in peace. Gob, we 
won't be let even do that much itself 

— Well, good health, Jack, says Ned. 

— Good health, Ned, says J. J. 

— There he is again, says Joe. 

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— Where? says Alf 

And begob there he was passing the door with his books under his oxter and the wife beside him 
and Corny Kelleher with his wall eye looking in as they went past, talking to him like a father, trying to 
sell him a secondhand coffin. 

— How did that Canada swindle case go off? says Joe. 

— Remanded, says J. J. 

One of the bottlenosed fraternity it was went by the name of James Wought alias Saphiro alias 
Spark and Spiro, put an ad in the papers saying he'd give a passage to Canada for twenty bob. What? 
Do you see any green in the white of my eye? Course it was a bloody barney What? Swindled them 
all, skivvies and badhachs from the county Meath, ay, and his own kidney too. J. J. was telling us 
there was an ancient Hebrew Zaretsky or something weeping in the witnessbox with his hat on him, 
swearing by the holy Moses he was stuck for two quid. 

— Who tried the case? says Joe. 

— Recorder, says Ned. 

— Poor old sir Frederick, says Alf, you can cod him up to the two eyes. 

— Heart as big as a lion, says Ned. Tell him a tale of woe about arrears of rent and a sick wife and 
a squad of kids and, faith he'll dissolve in tears on the bench. 

— Ay, says Alf Reuben J was bloody lucky he didn't clap him in the dock the other day for suing 
poor little Gumley that's minding stones, for the corporation there near Butt bridge. 

And he starts taking off the old recorder letting on to cry: 

— A most scandalous thing! This poor hardworking man! How many children? Ten, did you say? 

— Yes, your worship. And my wife has the typhoid. 

— And the wife with typhoid fever! Scandalous! Leave the court immediately, sir. No, sir, I'll make 
no order for payment. How dare you, sir, come up before me and ask me to make an order! A poor 
hardworking industrious man! I dismiss the case. 

And whereas on the sixteenth day of the month of the oxeyed goddess and in the third week after 
the feastday of the Holy and Undivided Trinity, the daughter of the skies, the virgin moon being then in 
her first quarter, it came to pass that those learned judges repaired them to the halls of law. There 
master Courtenay, sitting in his own chamber, gave his rede and master Justice Andrews, sitting 
without a jury in the probate court, weighed well and pondered the claim of the first chargeant upon 
the property in the matter of the will propounded and final testamentary disposition in re the real and 
personal estate of the late lamented Jacob Halliday, vintner, deceased, versus Livingstone, an infant, of 
unsound mind, and another. And to the solemn court of Green street there came sir Frederick the 
Falconer. And he sat him there about the hour of five o'clock to administer the law of the brehons at 
the commission for all that and those parts to be holden in and for the county of the city of Dublin. And 
there sat with him the high sinhedrim of the twelve tribes of Iar, for every tribe one man, of the tribe of 
Patrick and of the tribe of Hugh and ofthe tribe of Owen and of the tribe of Conn and of the tribe of 
Oscar and ofthe tribe of Fergus and ofthe tribe of Finn and ofthe tribe of Dermot and ofthe tribe of 
Cormac and ofthe tribe of Kevin and ofthe tribe of Caolte and ofthe tribe of Ossian, there being in 
all twelve good men and true. And he conjured them by Him who died on rood that they should well 
and truly try and true deliverance make in the issue joined between their sovereign lord the king and 
the prisoner at the bar and true verdict give according to the evidence so help them God and kiss the 
book. And they rose in their seats, those twelve of Iar, and they swore by the name of Him Who is 

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from everlasting that they would do His rightwiseness. And straightway the minions of the law led forth 
from their donjon keep one whom the sleuthhounds of justice had apprehended in consequence of 
information received. And they shackled him hand and foot and would take of him ne bail ne mainprise 
but preferred a charge against him for he was a malefactor. 

— Those are nice things, says the citizen, coming over here to Ireland filling the country with bugs. 

So Bbom lets on he heard nothing and he starts talking with Joe, telling him he needn't trouble 
about that little matter till the first but if he would just say a word to Mr Crawford. And so Joe swore 
high and holy by this and by that he'd do the devil and all 

— Because, you see, says Bloom, for an advertisement you must have repetition. That's the whole 
secret. 

— Rely on me, says Joe. 

— Swindling the peasants, says the citizen, and the poor of Ireland. We want no more strangers in 
our house. 

— O, I'm sure that will be all right, Hynes, says Bloom It's just that Keyes, you see. 

— Consider that done, says Joe. 

— Very kind of you, says Bloom 

— The strangers, says the citizen. Our own fault. We let them come in We brought them in. The 
adulteress and her paramour brought the Saxon robbers here. 

— Decree nisi, says J. J. 

And Bloom letting on to be awfully deeply interested in nothing, a spider's web in the corner behind 
the barrel, and the citizen scowling after him and the old dog at his feet looking up to know who to bite 
and when. 

— A dishonoured wife, says the citizen, that's what's the cause of all our misfortunes. 

— And here she is, says Alf, that was giggling over the Police Gazette with Terry on the counter, in 
all her warpaint. 

— Give us a squint at her, says I. 

And what was it only one of the smutty yankee pictures Terry borrows off of Corny Kelleher. 
Secrets for enlarging your private parts. Misconduct of society belle. Norman W. Tupper, wealthy 
Chicago contractor, finds pretty but faithless wife in lap of officer Taylor. Belle in her bloomers 
misconducting herself, and her fancyman feeling for her tickles and Norman W. Tupper bouncing in 
with his peashooter just in time to be late after she doing the trick of the loop with officer Taylor. 

— O jakers, Jenny, says Joe, how short your shirt is! 

— There's hair, Joe, says I. Get a queer old tailend of corned beef off of that one, what? 

So anyhow in came John Wyse Nolan and Lenehan with him with a face on him as long as a late 
breakfast. 

— Well, says the citizen, what's the latest from the scene of action? What did those tinkers in the 
city hall at their caucus meeting decide about the Irish language? 

O'Nokn, clad in shining armour, low bending made obeisance to the puissant and high and mighty 
chief of all Erin and did him to wit of that which had befallen, how that the grave elders of the most 

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obedient city, second of the realm, had met them in the tholsel, and there, after due prayers to the 
gods who dwell in ether supernal, had taken solemn counsel whereby they might, if so be it might be, 
bring once more into honour among mortal men the winged speech of the seadivided Gael. 

— It's on the march, says the citizen. To hell with the bloody brutal Sassenachs and their patois. 

So J. J. puts in a word, doing the toff about one story was good till you heard another and blinking 
facts and the Nelson policy, putting your blind eye to the telescope and drawing up a bill of attainder 
to impeach a nation, and Bloom trying to back him up moderation and botheration and their colonies 
and their civilisation. 

— Their syphilisation, you mean, says the citizen. To hell with them! The curse of a goodforno thing 
God light sideways on the bloody thicklugged sons of whores' gets! No music and no art and no 
literature worthy of the name. Any civilisation they have they stole from us. Tonguetied sons of 
bastards' ghosts. 

— The European family, says J. J.... 

— They're not European, says the citizen. I was in Europe with Kevin Egan of Paris. You wouldn't 
see a trace of them or their language anywhere in Europe except in a cabinet d'aisance. 

And says John Wyse: 

— Full many a flower is born to blush unseen. 

And says Lenehan that knows a bit of the lingo: 

— Conspuez les Anglais! P erf ide Albion! 

He said and then lifted he in his rude great brawny strengthy hands the medher of dark strong foamy 
ale and, uttering his tribal slogan Lamh Dearg Abu, he drank to the undoing of his foes, a race of 
mighty valorous heroes, rulers of the waves, who sit on thrones of alabaster silent as the deathless 
gods. 

— What's up with you, says I to Lenehan. You look like a fellow that had lost a bob and found a 
tanner. 

— Gold cup, says he. 

— Who won, Mr Lenehan? says Terry. 

— Throwaway, says he, at twenty to one. A rank outsider. And the rest nowhere. 

— And Bass's mare? says Terry. 

— Still running, says he. We're all in a cart. Boylan plunged two quid on my tip Sceptre for himself 
and a lady friend. 

— I had half a crown myself, says Terry, on Zinfandel that Mr Frynn gave me. Lord Howard de 
Walden's. 

— Twenty to one, says Lenehan Such is life in an outhouse. Throwaway, says he. Takes the 
biscuit, and talking about bunions. Frailty, thy name is Sceptre. 

So he went over to the biscuit tin Bob Doran left to see if there was anything he could lift on the 
nod, the old cur after him backing his luck with his mangy snout up. Old Mother Hubbard went to the 
cupboard. 

— Not there, my child, says he. 

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— Keep your pecker up, says Joe. She'd have won the money only for the other dog. 

And J. J. and the citizen arguing about law and history with Bloom sticking in an odd word. 

— Some people, says Bloom, can see the mote in others' eyes but they can't see the beam in their 
own. 

— Raimeis, says the citizen. There's no-one as blind as the fellow that won't see, ifyou know what 
that means. Where are our missing twenty millions of Irish should be here today instead of four, our 
lost tribes? And our potteries and textiles, the finest in the whole world! And our wool that was sold in 
Rome in the time of Juvenal and our flax and our damask from the looms of Antrim and our Limerick 
lace, our tanneries and our white flint glass down there by Balrybough and our Huguenot poplin that 
we have since Jacquard de Lyon and our woven silk and our Foxford tweeds and ivory raised point 
from the Carmelite convent in New Ross, nothing like it in the whole wide world. Where are the 
Greek merchants that came through the pillars of Hercules, the Gibraltar now grabbed by the foe of 
mankind, with gold and Tyrian purple to sell in Wexford at the fair of Carmen? Read Tacitus and 
Ptolemy, even Giraldus Cambrensis. Wine, peltries, Connemara marble, silver from Tipperary, second 
to none, our farfamed horses even today, the Irish hobbies, with king Philip of Spain offering to pay 
customs duties for the right to fish in our waters. What do the yellowjohns of Anglia owe us for our 
ruined trade and our ruined hearths? And the beds of the Barrow and Shannon they won't deepen 
with millions of acres of marsh and bog to make us all die of consumption? 

— As treeless as Portugal we'll be soon, says John Wyse, or Heligoland with its one tree if 
something is not done to reafforest the land. Larches, firs, all the trees of the conifer family are going 
fast. I was reading a report of lord Castletown's... 

— Save them, says the citizen, the giant ash of Gahvay and the chieftain elm of Kildare with a 
fortyfoot bole and an acre of foliage. Save the trees of Ireland for the future men of Ireland on the fair 
hills of Eire, O. 

— Europe has its eyes on you, says Lenehan. 

The fashionable international world attended EN MASSE this afternoon at the wedding of the 
chevalier Jean Wyse de Neaulan, grand high chief ranger of the Irish National Foresters, with Miss Fir 
Conifer of Pine Valley. Lady Sylvester Elmshade, Mrs Barbara Lovebirch, Mrs Poll Ash Mrs Holly 
Hazeleyes, Miss Daphne Bays, Miss Dorothy Canebrake, Mrs Clyde Twelvetrees, Mrs Rowan 
Greene, Mrs Helen Vinegadding, Miss Virginia Creeper, Miss Gladys Beech, Miss Olive Garth, Miss 
Blanche Maple, Mrs Maud Mahogany, Miss Myra Myrtle, Miss Priscilla Elderflower, Miss Bee 
Honeysuckle, Miss Grace Poplar, Miss O Mimosa San, Miss Rachel Cedarfrond, the Misses Lilian 
and Viola Lilac, Miss Timidity Aspenall, Mrs Kitty Dewey-Mosse, Miss May Hawthorne, Mrs 
Glorkna Palme, Mrs Liana Forrest, Mrs Arabella Blackwood and Mrs Norma Hofyoake of 
Oakholme Regis graced the ceremony by their presence. The bride who was given away by her 
father, the M'Conifer of the Glands, looked exquisitely charming in a creation carried out in green 
mercerised silk, moulded on an underslip of gloaming grey, sashed with a yoke of broad emerald and 
finished with a triple flounce of darkerhued fringe, the scheme being relieved by bretelles and hip 
insertions of acorn bronze. The maids of honour, Miss Larch Conifer and Miss Spruce Conifer, sisters 
of the bride, wore very becoming costumes in the same tone, a dainty motif of plume rose being 
worked into the pleats in a pinstripe and repeated capriciously in the jadegreen toques in the form of 
heron feathers of paletinted coraL Senhor Enrique Flor presided at the organ with his wellknown 
ability and, in addition to the prescribed numbers of the nuptial mass, played a new and striking 
arrangement of Woodman, spare that tree at the conclusion of the service. On leaving the church of 
Saint Fiacre in Horto after the papal blessing the happy pair were subjected to a playful crossfire of 
hazelnuts, beechmast, bayleaves, catkins of willow, ivytod, holfyberries, mistletoe sprigs and quicken 
shoots. Mr and Mrs Wyse Conifer Neaulan will spend a quiet honeymoon in the Black Forest. 

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— And our eyes are on Europe, says the citizen. We had our trade with Spain and the French and 
with the Flemings before those mongrels were pupped, Spanish ale in Gahvay, the winebark on the 
winedark waterway. 

— And will again, says Joe. 

— And with the help of the holy mother of God we will again, says the citizen, clapping his thigh, our 
harbours that are empty will be full again, Queenstown, Kinsale, Gahvay, Blacksod Bay, Ventry in the 
kingdom of Kerry, Kilrybegs, the third largest harbour in the wide world with a fleet of masts of the 
Gahvay Lynches and the Cavan O'Reillys and the O 'Kennedys of Dublin when the earl of Desmond 
could make a treaty with the emperor Charles the Fifth himself And will again, says he, when the first 
Irish battleship is seen breasting the waves with our own flag to the fore, none of your Henry Tudor's 
harps, no, the oldest flag afloat, the flag of the province of Desmond and Thomond, three crowns on a 
blue field, the three sons of Milesius. 

And he took the last swig out of the pint. Moya. All wind and piss like a tanyard cat. Cows in 
Connacht have long horns. As much as his bloody life is worth to go down and address his tall talk to 
the assembled multitude in Shanagolden where he daren't show his nose with the Molly Maguires 
looking for him to let daylight through him for grabbing the holding of an evicted tenant. 

— Hear, hear to that, says John Wyse. What will you have? 

— An imperial yeomanry, says Lenehan, to celebrate the occasion. 

— Half one, Terry, says John Wyse, and a hands up. Terry! Are you asleep? 

— Yes, sir, says Terry. Small whisky and bottle of Allsop. Right, sir. 

Hanging over the bloody paper with Alf looking for spicy bits instead of attending to the general 
public. Picture of a butting match trying to crack their bloody skulls, one chap going for the other with 
his head down like a bull at a gate. And another one: Black Beast Burned in Omaha, Ga. A lot of 
Deadwood Dicks in slouch hats and they firing at a Sambo strung up in a tree with his tongue out and 
a bonfire under him Gob, they ought to drown him in the sea after and electrocute and crucify him to 
make sure of their job. 

— But what about the fighting navy, says Ned, that keeps our foes at bay? 

— I'll tell you what about it, says the citizen. Hell upon earth it is. Read the revelations that's going 
on in the papers about flogging on the training ships at Portsmouth. A fellow writes that calls himself 
Disgusted One. 

So he starts telling us about corporal punishment and about the crew of tars and officers and 
rearadmirals drawn up in cocked hats and the parson with his protestant bible to witness punishment 
and a young lad brought out, howling for his ma, and they tie him down on the buttend of a gun 

— A rump and dozen, says the citizen, was what that old ruffian sir John Beresford called it but the 
modern God's Englishman calls it caning on the breech. 

And says John Wyse: 

— 'Tis a custom more honoured in the breach than in the observance. 

Then he was telling us the master at arms comes along with a long cane and he draws out and he 
flogs the bloody backside off of the poor lad till he yells meila murder. 

— That's your glorious British navy, says the citizen, that bosses the earth 

The fellows that never will be slaves, with the only hereditary chamber on the face of God's earth 

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and their land in the hands of a dozen gamehogs and cottonball barons. That's the great empire they 
boast about of drudges and whipped serfs. 

— On which the sun never rises, says Joe. 

— And the tragedy of it is, says the citizen, they believe it. The unfortunate yahoos believe it. 

They believe in rod, the scourger almighty, creator of hell upon earth, and in Jacky Tar, the son of a 
gun, who was conceived of unholy boast, born of the fighting navy, suffered under rump and dozen, 
was scarified, flayed and curried, yelled like bloody hell, the third day he arose again from the bed, 
steered into haven, sitteth on his beamend till further orders whence he shall come to drudge for a 
living and be paid. 

— But, says Bloom, isn't discipline the same everywhere. I mean wouldn't it be the same here if you 
put force against force? 

Didn't I tell you? As true as I'm drinking this porter if he was at his last gasp he'd try to downface 
you that dying was living. 

— We'll put force against force, says the citizen. We have our greater Ireland beyond the sea. They 
were driven out of house and home in the black 47. Their mudcabins and their shielings by the 
roadside were laid low by the batteringram and the Times rubbed its hands and told the whitelivered 
Saxons there would soon be as few Irish in Ireland as redskins in America. Even the Grand Turk sent 
us his piastres. But the Sassenach tried to starve the nation at home while the land was full of crops 
that the British hyenas bought and sold in Rio de Janeiro. Ay, they drove out the peasants in hordes. 
Twenty thousand of them died in the coffinships. But those that came to the land of the free remember 
the land of bondage. And they will come again and with a vengeance, no cravens, the sons of 
Granuaile, the champions of Kathleen ni Houlihan. 



— Perfectly true, says Bloom. But my point was... 



— We are a long time waiting for that day, citizen, says Ned. Since the poor old woman told us that 
the French were on the sea and landed at Killala. 

— Ay, says John Wyse. We fought for the royal Stuarts that reneged us against the Williamites and 
they betrayed us. Remember Limerick and the broken treatystone. We gave our best blood to France 
and Spain, the wild geese. Fontenoy, eh? And Sarsfield and O'Donnell, duke of Tetuan in Spain, and 
Ulysses Browne of Camus that was fieldmarshal to Maria Teresa. But what did we ever get for it? 

— The French! says the citizen. Set of dancing masters! Do you know what it is? They were never 
worth a roasted fart to Ireland. Aren't they trying to make an Entente cordiale now at Tay Pay's 
dinnerparty with perfidious Albion? Firebrands of Europe and they always were. 

— Conspuez les Frangais, says Lenehan, nobbling his beer. 

— And as for the Prooshians and the Hanoverians, says Joe, haven't we had enough of those 
sausageeating bastards on the throne from George the elector down to the German lad and the 
flatulent old bitch that's dead? 

Jesus, I had to laugh at the way he came out with that about the old one with the winkers on her, 
blind drunk in her royal palace every night of God, old Vic, with her jorum of mountain dew and her 
coachman carting her up body and bones to roll into bed and she pulling him by the whiskers and 
singing him old bits of songs about Ehren on the Rhine and come where the boose is cheaper. 

— Well, says J. J. We have Edward the peacemaker now. 

— Tell that to a fool, says the citizen There's a bloody sight more pox than pax about that boyo. 

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Edward Guelph-Wettin! 

— And what do you think, says Joe, of the holy boys, the priests and bishops of Ireland doing up 
his room in Maynooth in His Satanic Majesty's racing colours and sticking up pictures of all the horses 
his jockeys rode. The earl of Dublin, no less. 

— They ought to have stuck up all the women he rode himself, says little Alf 

And says J. J.: 

— Considerations of space influenced their lordships' decision 

— Will you try another, citizen? says Joe. 

— Yes, sir, says he. I will. 

— You? says Joe. 

— Beholden to you, Joe, says I. May your shadow never grow less. 

— Repeat that dose, says Joe. 

Bloom was talking and talking with John Wyse and he quite excited with his 
dunducketymudcoloured mug on him and his old plumeyes rolling about. 

— Persecution, says he, all the history of the world is full of it. Perpetuating national hatred among 
nations. 

— But do you know what a nation means? says John Wyse. 

— Yes, says Bloom. 

— What is it? says John Wyse. 

— A nation? says Bloom A nation is the same people living in the same place. 

— By God, then, says Ned, laughing, if that's so I'm a nation for I'm living in the same place for the 
past five years. 

So of course everyone had the laugh at Bloom and says he, trying to muck out of it: 

— Or also living in different places. 

— That covers my case, says Joe. 

— What is your nation if I may ask? says the citizen. 

— Ireland, says Bloom I was bom here. Ireland. 

The citizen said nothing only cleared the spit out of his gullet and, gob, he spat a Red bank oyster 
out of him right in the comer. 

— After you with the push, Joe, says he, taking out his handkerchief to swab himself dry. 

— Here you are, citizen, says Joe. Take that in your right hand and repeat after me the following 
words. 

The muchtreasured and intricately embroidered ancient Irish facecloth attributed to Solomon of 
Droma and Manus Tomaltach og MacDonogh, authors of the Book of Balfymote, was then carefully 
produced and called forth prolonged admiration. No need to dwell on the legendary beauty of the 
cornerpieces, the acme of art, wherein one can distinctly discern each of the four evangelists in turn 

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presenting to each of the four masters his evangelical symbol, a bogoak sceptre, a North American 
puma (a far nobler king of beasts than the British article, be it said in passing), a Kerry calf and a 
golden eagle from CarrantuohilL The scenes depicted on the emunctory field, showing our ancient 
duns and raths and cromlechs and grknauns and seats of learning and maledictive stones, are as 
wonderfully beautiful and the pigments as delicate as when the Sligo illuminators gave free rein to their 
artistic fantasy long long ago in the time of the Barmecides. Glendalough, the lovely lakes of Killamey, 
the ruins of Clonmacnois, Cong Abbey, Glen Inagh and the Twelve Pins, Ireland's Eye, the Green 
Hills of Talkght, Croagh Patrick, the brewery of Messrs Arthur Guinness, Son and Company 
(Limited), Lough Neagh's banks, the vale of Ovoca, Isolde's tower, the Mapas obelisk, Sir Patrick 
Dun's hospital, Cape Clear, the glen of Aherlow, Lynch's castle, the Scotch house, Rathdown Union 
Workhouse at Loughlinstown, Tullamore jail, Castleconnel rapids, Kilbalfymacshonakill, the cross at 
Monasterboice, Jury's Hotel, S. Patrick's Purgatory, the Salmon Leap, Maynooth college refectory, 
Curley's hole, the three birthplaces of the first duke of Wellington, the rock of Cashel, the bog of 
Allen, the Henry Street Warehouse, Fingal's Cave — all these moving scenes are still there for us today 
rendered more beautiful still by the waters of sorrow which have passed over them and by the rich 
incrustations of time. 

— Show us over the drink, says I. Which is which? 

— That's mine, says Joe, as the devil said to the dead policeman. 

— And I belong to a race too, says Bloom, that is hated and persecuted. Also now. This very 
moment. This very instant. 

Gob, he near burnt his fingers with the butt of his old cigar. 

— Robbed, says he. Plundered. Insulted. Persecuted. Taking what belongs to us by right. At this 
very moment, says he, putting up his fist, sold by auction in Morocco like slaves or cattle. 

— Are you talking about the new Jerusalem? says the citizen. 

— I'm talking about injustice, says Bloom 

— Right, says John Wyse. Stand up to it then with force like men. 

That's an almanac picture for you. Mark for a softnosed bullet. Old lardyface standing up to the 
business end of a gun. Gob, he'd adorn a sweepingbrush, so he would, if he only had a nurse's apron 
on him. And then he collapses all of a sudden, twisting around all the opposite, as limp as a wet rag. 

— But it's no use, says he. Force, hatred, history, all that. That's not life for men and women, insult 
and hatred. And everybody knows that it's the very opposite of that that is realty life. 

—What? says Alf 

— Love, says Bloom I mean the opposite of hatred. I must go now, says he to John Wyse. Just 
round to the court a moment to see if Martin is there. If he comes just say I'll be back in a second. Just 
a moment. 

Who's hindering you? And off he pops like greased lightning. 

— A new apostle to the gentiles, says the citizen. Universal love. 

— Well, says John Wyse. Isn't that what we're told. Love your neighbour. 

— That chap? says the citizen Beggar my neighbour is his motto. Love, moya! He's a nice pattern 
of a Romeo and Juliet. 

Love loves to love love. Nurse loves the new chemist. Constable 14A loves Mary Kelly. Gerty 

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MacDowell loves the boy that has the bicycle. M. B. loves a fair gentlemaa Li Chi Han lovey up kissy 
Cha Pu Chow. Jumbo, the elephant, loves Alice, the elephant. Old Mr Verschoyle with the ear 
trumpet loves old Mrs Verschoyle with the turnedin eye. The man in the brown macintosh loves a lady 
who is dead. His Majesty the King loves Her Majesty the Queen. Mrs Norman W. Tupper loves 
officer Taylor. You love a certain person. And this person loves that other person because everybody 
loves somebody but God loves everybody. 

— Well, Joe, says I, your very good health and song. More power, citizen. 

— Hurrah, there, says Joe. 

— The blessing of God and Mary and Patrick on you, says the citizen 

And he ups with his pint to wet his whistle. 

— We know those canters, says he, preaching and picking your pocket. What about sanctimonious 
Cromwell and his ironsides that put the women and children of Drogheda to the sword with the bible 
text God is love pasted round the mouth of his cannon? The bible! Did you read that skit in the 
United Irishman today about that Zulu chief that's visiting England? 

— What's that? says Joe. 

So the citizen takes up one of his paraphernalia papers and he starts reading out: 

— A delegation of the chief cotton magnates of Manchester was presented yesterday to His 
Majesty the Alaki of Abeakuta by Gold Stick in Waiting, Lord Walkup of Walkup on Eggs, to tender 
to His Majesty the heartfelt thanks of British traders for the facilities afforded them in his dominions. 
The delegation partook of luncheon at the conclusion of which the dusky potentate, in the course of a 
happy speech, freely translated by the British chaplain, the reverend Ananias Praisegod Barebones, 
tendered his best thanks to Massa Walkup and emphasised the cordial relations existing between 
Abeakuta and the British empire, stating that he treasured as one of his dearest possessions an 
illuminated bible, the volume of the word of God and the secret of England's greatness, graciously 
presented to him by the white chief woman, the great squaw Victoria, with a personal dedication from 
the august hand of the Royal Donor. The Alaki then drank a lovingcup of firstshot usquebaugh to the 
toast Black and White from the skull of his immediate predecessor in the dynasty Kakachakachak, 
surnamed Forty Warts, after which he visited the chief factory of Cottonopolis and signed his mark in 
the visitors' book, subsequently executing a charming old Abeakutic wardance, in the course of which 
he swallowed several knives and forks, amid hilarious applause from the girl hands. 

— Widow woman, says Ned. I wouldn't doubt her. Wonder did he put that bible to the same use 
as I would. 

— Same only more so, says Lenehan. And thereafter in that fruitful land the broadleaved mango 
flourished exceedingly. 

— Is that by Griffith? says John Wyse. 

— No, says the citizen It's not signed Shanganagh. It's only initialled: P. 

— And a very good initial too, says Joe. 

— That's how it's worked, says the citizen Trade follows the flag. 

— Well, says J. J., if they're any worse than those Belgians in the Congo Free State they must be 
bad. Did you read that report by a man what's this his name is? 

— Casement, says the citizen. He's an Irishman. 

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— Yes, that's the man, says J. J. Raping the women and girls and flogging the natives on the belly to 
squeeze all the red rubber they can out of them 

— I know where he's gone, says Lenehan, cracking his fingers. 

— Who? says I. 

— Bloom, says he. The courthouse is a blind. He had a few bob on Throwaway and he's gone to 
gather in the shekels. 

— Is it that whiteeyed kaffir? says the citizen, that never backed a horse in anger in his life? 

— That's where he's gone, says Lenehan. I met Bantam Lyons going to back that horse only I put 
him off it and he told me Bloom gave him the tip. Bet you what you like he has a hundred shillings to 
five on. He's the only man in Dublin has it. A dark horse. 

— He's a bloody dark horse himself, says Joe. 

— Mind, Joe, says I. Show us the entrance out. 

— There you are, says Terry. 

Goodbye Ireland I'm going to Gort. So I just went round the back of the yard to pumpship and 
begob (hundred shillings to five) while I was letting off my (Throwaway twenty to) letting off my load 
gob says I to myself I knew he was uneasy in his (two pints offof Joe and one in Slatterys off) in his 
mind to get off the mark to (hundred shillings is five quid) and when they were in the (dark horse) 
pisser Burke was telling me card party and letting on the child was sick (gob, must have done about a 
gallon) flabbyarse of a wife speaking down the tube she's better or she's (ow!) all a plan so he could 
vamoose with the pool if he won or (Jesus, full up I was) trading without a licence (ow!) Ireland my 
nation says he (hoik! phthook!) never be up to those bloody (there's the last of it) Jerusalem (ah!) 
cuckoos. 

So anyhow when I got back they were at it dingdong, John Wyse saying it was Bloom gave the 
ideas for Sinn Fein to Griffith to put in his paper all kinds of jerrymandering, packed juries and 
swindling the taxes off of the government and appointing consuls all over the world to walk about 
selling Irish industries. Robbing Peter to pay PauL Gob, that puts the bloody kybosh on it if old sloppy 
eyes is mucking up the show. Give us a bloody chance. God save Ireland from the likes of that bloody 
mouseabout. Mr Bloom with his argol bargoL And his old fellow before him perpetrating frauds, old 
Methusalem Bloom, the robbing bagman, that poisoned himself with the prussic acid after he 
swamping the country with his baubles and his penny diamonds. Loans by post on easy terms. Any 
amount of money advanced on note of hand. Distance no object. No security. Gob, he's like Lanty 
MacHale's goat that'd go a piece of the road with every one. 

— Well, it's a fact, says John Wyse. And there's the man now that'll tell you all about it, Martin 
Cunningham 

Sure enough the castle car drove up with Martin on it and Jack Power with him and a fellow named 
Crofter or Crofton, pensioner out of the collector general's, an orangeman Blackburn does have on 
the registration and he drawing his pay or Crawford gallivanting around the country at the king's 
expense. 

Our travellers reached the rustic hostelry and alighted from their palfreys. 

— Ho, varlet! cried he, who by his mien seemed the leader of the party. Saucy knave! To us! 

So saying he knocked loudly with his swordhilt upon the open lattice. 

Mine host came forth at the summons, girding him with his tabard. 

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— Give you good den, my masters, said he with an obsequious bow. 

— Bestir thyself, sirrah! cried he who had knocked. Look to our steeds. And for ourselves give us 
of your best for ifaith we need it. 

— Lackaday, good masters, said the host, my poor house has but a bare larder. I know not what to 
offer your lordships. 

— How now, fellow? cried the second of the party, a man of pleasant countenance, So servest thou 
the king's messengers, master Taptun? 

An instantaneous change overspread the landlord's visage. 

— Cry you mercy, gentlemen, he said humbly. An you be the king's messengers (God shield His 
Majesty!) you shall not want for aught. The king's friends (God bless His Majesty!) shall not go 
afasting in my house I warrant me. 

— Then about! cried the traveller who had not spoken, a lusty trencherman by his aspect. Hast 
aught to give us? 

Mine host bowed again as he made answer: 

— What say you, good masters, to a squab pigeon pasty, some collops of venison, a saddle of veal, 
widgeon with crisp hog's bacon, a boar's head with pistachios, a bason of jolly custard, a medlar tansy 
and a flagon of old Rhenish? 

— Gadzooks! cried the last speaker. That likes me well Pistachios! 

— Aha! cried he of the pleasant countenance. A poor house and a bare larder, quotha! 'Tis a merry 
rogue. 

So in comes Martin asking where was Bloom 

— Where is he? says Lenehan Defrauding widows and orphans. 

— Isn't that a fact, says John Wyse, what I was telling the citizen about Bloom and the Sinn Fein? 

— That's so, says Martin. Or so they allege. 

— Who made those allegations? says Alf 

— I, says Joe. I'm the algator. 

— And after all, says John Wyse, why can't a jew love his country like the next fellow? 

— Why not? says J. J., when he's quite sure which country it is. 

— Is he a jew or a gentile or a holy Roman or a swaddler or what the hell is he? says Ned. Or who 
is he? No offence, Crofton. 

— Who is Junius? says J. J. 

— We don't want him, says Crofter the Orangeman or presbyterian. 

— He's a perverted jew, says Martin, from a place in Hungary and it was he drew up all the plans 
according to the Hungarian system We know that in the castle. 

— Isn't he a cousin of Bloom the dentist? says Jack Power. 

— Not at all, says Martin Only namesakes. His name was Virag, the father's name that poisoned 
himself He changed it by deedpoll, the father did. 

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— That's the new Messiah for Ireland! says the citizen Island of saints and sages! 

— Well, they're still waiting for their redeemer, says Martin. For that matter so are we. 

— Yes, says J. J., and every male that's born they think it may be their Messiah. And every jew is in 
a tall state of excitement, I believe, till he knows if he's a father or a mother. 

— Expecting every moment will be his next, says Lenehan 

— O, by God, says Ned, you should have seen Bloom before that son of his that died was born. I 
met him one day in the south city markets buying a tin ofNeave's food six weeks before the wife was 
delivered. 

— En ventre sa mere, says J. J. 

— Do you call that a man? says the citizen 

— I wonder did he ever put it out of sight, says Joe. 

— Well, there were two children born anyhow, says Jack Power. 

— And who does he suspect? says the citizen 

Gob, there's many a true word spoken in jest. One of those mixed middlings he is. Lying up in the 
hotel Pisser was telling me once a month with headache like a totty with her courses. Do you know 
what I'm telling you? It'd be an act of God to take a hold of a fellow the like of that and throw him in 
the bloody sea. Justifiable homicide, so it would. Then sloping off with his five quid without putting up 
a pint of stuff like a man. Give us your blessing. Not as much as would blind your eye. 

— Charity to the neighbour, says Martin. But where is he? We can't wait. 

— A wolf in sheep's clothing, says the citizen That's what he is. Virag from Hungary! Ahasuerus I 
call him Cursed by God. 

— Have you time for a brief libation, Martin? says Ned. 

— Only one, says Martin. We must be quick. J. J. and S. 

— You, Jack? Crofton? Three half ones, Terry. 

— Saint Patrick would want to land again at Balrykinkr and convert us, says the citizen, after 
allowing things like that to contaminate our shores. 

— Well, says Martin, rapping for his glass. God bless all here is my prayer. 

— Amen, says the citizen. 

— And I'm sure He will, says Joe. 

And at the sound of the sacring bell, headed by a crucifer with acolytes, thurifers, boatbearers, 
readers, ostiarii, deacons and subdeacons, the blessed company drew nigh of mitred abbots and 
priors and guardians and monks and friars: the monks of Benedict of Spoleto, Carthusians and 
Camaldolesi, Cistercians and Olivetans, Oratorians and Vallombrosans, and the friars of Augustine, 
Brigittines, Premonstratensians, Servi, Trinitarians, and the children of Peter Nolasco: and therewith 
from Carmel mount the children of Elijah prophet led by Albert bishop and by Teresa of Avila, calced 
and other: and friars, brown and grey, sons of poor Francis, capuchins, cordeliers, minimes and 
observants and the daughters of Clara: and the sons of Dominic, the friars preachers, and the sons of 
Vincent: and the monks of S. Wolstan: and Ignatius his children: and the confraternity of the christian 
brothers led by the reverend brother Edmund Ignatius Rice. And after came all saints and martyrs, 

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virgins and confessors: S. Cyr and S. Isidore Arator and S. James the Less and S. Phocas of Sinope 
and S. Julian Hospitator and S. Felix de Cantalice and S. Simon Stylites and S. Stephen Protomartyr 
and S. John of God and S. Ferreol and S. Leugarde and S. Theodotus and S. Vuhnar and S. Richard 
and S. Vincent de Paul and S. Martin of Todi and S. Martin of Tours and S. Alfred and S. Joseph 
and S. Denis and S. Cornelius and S. Leopold and S. Bernard and S. Terence and S. Edward and S. 
Owen Caniculus and S. Anonymous and S. Eponymous and S. Pseudonymous and S. Homonymous 
and S. Paronymous and S. Synonymous and S. Laurence O'Toole and S. James of Dingle and 
Compostella and S. Columcille and S. Columba and S. Celestine and S. Colman and S. Kevin and S. 
Brendan and S. Frigidian and S. Senan and S. Fachtna and S. Columbanus and S. Gall and S. Fursey 
and S. Fintan and S. Fiacre and S. JohnNepomuc and S. Thomas Aquinas and S. Ives of Brittany 
and S. Michan and S. Herman- Joseph and the three patrons of holy youth S. Aloysius Gonzaga and 
S. Stanislaus Kostka and S. John Berchmans and the saints Gervasius, Servasius and Bonifacius and 
S. Bride and S. Kieran and S. Canice of Kilkenny and S. Jarlath of Tuam and S. Finbarr and S. 
Pappin of Balrymun and Brother Aloysius Pacificus and Brother Louis Bellicosus and the saints Rose 
of Lima and of Viterbo and S. Martha of Bethany and S. Mary of Egypt and S. Lucy and S. Brigid 
and S. Attracta and S. Dympna and S. Ita and S. Marion Calpensis and the Blessed Sister Teresa of 
the Child Jesus and S. Barbara and S. Scholastica and S. Ursula with eleven thousand virgins. And all 
came with nimbi and aureoles and glome, bearing palms and harps and swords and olive crowns, in 
robes whereon were woven the blessed symbols of their efficacies, inkhorns, arrows, loaves, cruses, 
fetters, axes, trees, bridges, babes in a bathtub, shells, wallets, shears, keys, dragons, lilies, buckshot, 
beards, hogs, lamps, bellows, beehives, soupladles, stars, snakes, anvils, boxes of vaseline, bells, 
crutches, forceps, stags' horns, watertight boots, hawks, millstones, eyes on a dish wax candles, 
aspergills, unicorns. And as they wended their way by Nelson's Pillar, Henry street, Mary street, 
Capel street, Little Britain street chanting the introit in Epiphania Domini which beginneth Surge, 
illuminare and thereafter most sweetly the gradual Omnes which saith de Saba venient they did 
divers wonders such as casting out devils, raising the dead to life, multiplying fishes, healing the halt 
and the blind, discovering various articles which had been mislaid, interpreting and fulfilling the 
scriptures, blessing and prophesying. And last, beneath a canopy of cloth of gold came the reverend 
Father O'Frynn attended by Malachi and Patrick. And when the good fathers had reached the 
appointed place, the house of Bernard Kiernan and Co, limited, 8, 9 and 10 little Britain street, 
wholesale grocers, wine and brandy shippers, licensed fo the sale of beer, wine and spirits for 
consumption on the premises, the celebrant blessed the house and censed the mullioned windows and 
the groynes and the vaults and the arrises and the capitals and the pediments and the cornices and the 
engrailed arches and the spires and the cupolas and sprinkled the lintels thereof with blessed water and 
prayed that God might bless that house as he had blessed the house of Abraham and Isaac and Jacob 
and make the angels of His light to inhabit therein. And entering he blessed the viands and the 
beverages and the company of all the blessed answered his prayers. 

— Adiutorium nostrum in nomine Domini. 

— Qui fecit coelum et terram. 

— Dominus vobiscum. 

— Et cum spiritu tuo. 

And he laid his hands upon that he blessed and gave thanks and he prayed and they all with him 
prayed: 

— Deus, cuius verbo sanctificantur omnia, benedictionem tuam effunde super creaturas 
istas: et praesta ut quisquis eis secundum legem et voluntatem Tuam cum gratiarum actione 
usus fuerit per invocationem sanctissimi nominis Tui corporis sanitatem et animae tutelam Te 
auctore percipiat per Christum Dominum nostrum. 

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— And so say all of us, says Jack. 

— Thousand a year, Lambert, says Crofton or Crawford. 

— Right, says Ned, taking up his John Jameson. And butter for fish 

I was just looking around to see who the happy thought would strike when be damned but in he 
comes again letting on to be in a hell of a hurry. 

— I was just round at the courthouse, says he, looking for you. I hope I'm not... 

— No, says Martin, we're ready. 

Courthouse my eye and your pockets hanging down with gold and silver. Mean bloody scut. Stand 
us a drink itself Devil a sweet fear! There's a jew for you! All for number one. Cute as a shithouse rat. 
Hundred to five. 

— Don't tell anyone, says the citizen, 

— Beg your pardon, says he. 

— Come on boys, says Martin, seeing it was looking blue. Come along now. 

— Don't tell anyone, says the citizen, letting a bawl out of him It's a secret. 

And the bloody dog woke up and let a growl 

— Bye bye all, says Martin. 

And he got them out as quick as he could, Jack Power and Crofton or whatever you call him and 
him in the middle of them letting on to be all at sea and up with them on the bloody jaunting car. 

— Off with you, says 

Martin to the jarvey. 

The milkwhite dolphin tossed his mane and, rising in the golden poop the helmsman spread the 
bellying sail upon the wind and stood off forward with all sail set, the spinnaker to larboard. A many 
comely nymphs drew nigh to starboard and to larboard and, clinging to the sides of the noble bark, 
they linked their shining forms as doth the cunning wheelwright when he fashions about the heart of his 
wheel the equidistant rays whereof each one is sister to another and he binds them all with an outer 
ring and giveth speed to the feet of men whenas they ride to a hosting or contend for the smile of ladies 
fair. Even so did they come and set them, those willing nymphs, the undying sisters. And they laughed, 
sporting in a circle of their foam: and the bark clave the waves. 

But begob I was just lowering the heel of the pint when I saw the citizen getting up to waddle to the 
door, puffing and blowing with the dropsy, and he cursing the curse of Cromwell on him, bell, book 
and candle in Irish, spitting and spatting out of him and Joe and little Alf round him like a leprechaun 
trying to peacify him 

— Let me alone, says he. 

And begob he got as far as the door and they holding him and he bawls out of him: 

— Three cheers for Israel! 

Arrah, sit down on the parliamentary side of your arse for Christ' sake and don't be making a public 
exhibition of yourself Jesus, there's always some bloody clown or other kicking up a bloody murder 
about bloody nothing. Gob, it'd turn the porter sour in your guts, so it would. 

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And all the ragamuffins and sluts of the nation round the door and Martin telling the jarvey to drive 
ahead and the citizen bawling and Alf and Joe at him to whisht and he on his high horse about the jews 
and the loafers calling for a speech and Jack Power trying to get him to sit down on the car and hold 
his bloody jaw and a loafer with a patch over his eye starts singing If the man in the moon was a 
jew, jew, jew and a slut shouts out of her: 

— Eh, mister! Your fly is open, mister! 

And says he: 

— Mendelssohn was a jew and Karl Marx and Mercadante and Spinoza. And the Saviour was a 
jew and his father was a jew. Your God. 

— He had no father, says Martin. That'll do now. Drive ahead. 

— Whose God? says the citizen. 

— Well, his uncle was a jew, says he. Your God was a jew. Christ was a jew like me. 

Gob, the citizen made a plunge back into the shop. 

— By Jesus, says he, I'll brain that bloody jewman for using the holy name. 

By Jesus, I'll crucify him so I will Give us that biscuitbox here. 

— Stop! Stop! says Joe. 

A large and appreciative gathering of friends and acquaintances from the metropolis and greater 
Dublin assembled in their thousands to bid farewell to Nagyasagos uram Lipoti Virag, late of Messrs 
Alexander Thorn's, printers to His Majesty, on the occasion of his departure for the distant clime of 
Szazlrarminczbrojuguryas-Dugulas (Meadow of Murmuring Waters). The ceremony which went off 
with great eclat was characterised by the most affecting cordiality. An illuminated scroll of ancient Irish 
vellum, the work of Irish artists, was presented to the distinguished phenomenologist on behalf of a 
large section of the community and was accompanied by the gift of a silver casket, tastefully executed 
in the style of ancient Celtic ornament, a work which reflects every credit on the makers, Messrs 
Jacob agus Jacob. The departing guest was the recipient of a hearty ovation, many of those who were 
present being visibly moved when the select orchestra of Irish pipes struck up the wellknown strains of 
Come back to Erin, followed immediately by Rakoczsy's March, Tarbarrels and bonfires were 
lighted along the coastline of the four seas on the summits of the Hill of Howth, Three Rock Mountain, 
Sugarloaf, Bray Head, the mountains of Mourne, the Galtees, the Ox and Donegal and Sperrin peaks, 
the Nagles and the Bograghs, the Connemara hills, the reeks of M Gillicuddy, Slieve Aughty, Slieve 
Bernagh and Slieve Bloom Amid cheers that rent the welkin, responded to by answering cheers from 
a big muster of henchmen on the distant Cambrian and Caledonian hills, the mastodontic pleasureship 
slowly moved away saluted by a final floral tribute from the representatives of the fair sex who were 
present in large numbers while, as it proceeded down the river, escorted by a flotilla of barges, the 
flags of the Ballast office and Custom House were dipped in salute as were also those of the electrical 
power station at the Pigeonhouse and the Poolbeg Light. Visszontldtdsra, kedves bardton! 
Visszontldtdsra! Gone but not forgotten 

Gob, the devil wouldn't stop him till he got hold of the bloody tin anyhow and out with him and little 
Alf hanging on to his elbow and he shouting like a stuck pig, as good as any bloody play in the 
Queen's royal theatre: 

— Where is he till I murder him? 

And Ned and J. J. paralysed with the laughing. 

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— Bloody wars, says I, I'll be in for the last gospel. 

But as hick would have it the jarvey got the nag's head round the other way and off with him. 

— Hold on, citizen, says Joe. Stop! 

Begob he drew his hand and made a swipe and let fry. Mercy of God the sun was in his eyes or 
he'd have left him for dead. Gob, he near sent it into the county Longford. The bloody nag took fright 
and the old mongrel after the car like bloody hell and all the populace shouting and laughing and the 
old tinbox clattering along the street. 

The catastrophe was terrific and instantaneous in its effect. The observatory of Dunsink registered in 
all eleven shocks, all of the fifth grade of Mercalli's scale, and there is no record extant of a similar 
seismic disturbance in our island since the earthquake of 1534, the year of the rebelon of Silken 
Thomas. The epicentre appears to have been that part of the metropolis which constitutes the Inn's 
Quay ward and parish of Saint Michan covering a surface of fortyone acres, two roods and one 
square pole or perch All the lordly residences in the vicinity of the palace of justice were demolished 
and that noble edifice itself, in which at the time of the catastrophe important legal debates were in 
progress, is literally a mass of ruins beneath which it is to be feared all the occupants have been buried 
alive. From the reports of eyewitnesses it transpires that the seismic waves were accompanied by a 
violent atmospheric perturbation of cyclonic character. An article of headgear since ascertained to 
belong to the much respected clerk of the crown and peace Mr George Fottrell and a silk umbrella 
with gold handle with the engraved initials, crest, coat of arms and house number of the erudite and 
worshipful chairman of quarter sessions sir Frederick Falkiner, recorder of Dublin, have been 
discovered by search parties in remote parts of the island respectively, the former on the third basaltic 
ridge of the giant's causeway, the latter embedded to the extent of one foot three inches in the sandy 
beach of Holeopenbay near the old head of Kinsale. Other eyewitnesses depose that they observed 
an incandescent object of enormous proportions hurtling through the atmosphere at a terrifying velocity 
in a trajectory directed southwest by west. Messages of condolence and sympathy are being hourly 
received from all parts of the different continents and the sovereign pontiff has been graciously pleased 
to decree that a special missa pro defunctis shall be celebrated simultaneously by the ordinaries of 
each and every cathedral church of all the episcopal dioceses subject to the spiritual authority of the 
Holy See in suffrage of the souls of those faithful departed who have been so unexpectedly called 
away from our midst. The work of salvage, removal of debris, human remains etc has been entrusted 
to Messrs Michael Meade and Son, 159 Great Brunswick street, and Messrs T. and C. Martin, 77, 
78, 79 and 80 North Wall assisted by the men and officers of the Duke of Cornwall's light infantry 
under the general supervision of H. R. H, rear admiral, the right honourable sir Hercules Hannibal 
Habeas Corpus Anderson, K. G, K. P., K. T, P. C, K. C. B., M. P, J. P., M. B., D. S. O., S. O. 
D., M. F. H, M. R. I. A, B. L., Mus. Doc, P. L. G, F. T C. D., F. R U. I., F. R C. P. I. and F. 
R C. S. I. 

You never saw the like of it in all your born puff Gob, if he got that lottery ticket on the side of his 
poll he'd remember the gold cup, he would so, but begob the citizen would have been lagged for 
assault and battery and Joe for aiding and abetting. The jarvey saved his life by furious driving as sure 
as God made Moses. What? O, Jesus, he did. And he let a volley of oaths after him 

— Did I kill him, says he, or what? 

And he shouting to the bloody dog: 

— After him, Garry! After him, boy! 

And the last we saw was the bloody car rounding the corner and old sheepsface on it gesticulating 
and the bloody mongrel after it with his fugs back for all he was bloody well worth to tear him limb 
from limb. Hundred to five! Jesus, he took the value of it out of him, I promise you. 

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When, lo, there came about them all a great brightness and they beheld the chariot wherein He 
stood ascend to heaven. And they beheld Him in the chariot, clothed upon in the glory of the 
brightness, having raiment as of the sun, fair as the moon and terrible that for awe they durst not look 
upon Him And there came a voice out of heaven, calling: Elijah! Elijah! And He answered with a 
main cry: Abba! Adonai! And they beheld Him even Him, ben Bloom Elijah, amid clouds of angels 
ascend to the glory of the brightness at an angle of fortyfive degrees over Donohoe's in Little Green 
street like a shot off a shovel 

The summer evening had begun to fold the world in its mysterious embrace. Far away in the west 
the sun was setting and the last glow of all too fleeting day lingered lovingly on sea and strand, on the 
proud promontory of dear old Howth guarding as ever the waters of the bay, on the weedgrown 
rocks along Sandymount shore and, last but not least, on the quiet church whence there streamed forth 
at times upon the stillness the voice of prayer to her who is in her pure radiance a beacon ever to the 
stormtossed heart of man, Mary, star of the sea. 

The three girl friends were seated on the rocks, enjoying the evening scene and the air which was 
fresh but not too chilly. Many a time and oft were they wont to come there to that favourite nook to 
have a cosy chat beside the sparkling waves and discuss matters feminine, Cissy Caffrey and Edy 
Boardman with the baby in the pushcar and Tommy and Jacky Caffrey, two little curfyheaded boys, 
dressed in sailor suits with caps to match and the name H.M.S. Belleisle printed on both. For Tommy 
and Jacky Caffrey were twins, scarce four years old and very noisy and spoiled twins sometimes but 
for all that darling little fellows with bright merry faces and endearing ways about them They were 
dabbling in the sand with their spades and buckets, building castles as children do, or playing with their 
big coloured ball, happy as the day was long. And Edy Boardman was rocking the chubby baby to 
and fro in the pushcar while that young gentleman fairly chuckled with delight. He was but eleven 
months and nine days old and, though still a tiny toddler, was just beginning to lisp his first babyish 
words. Cissy Caffrey bent over to him to tease his fat little plucks and the dainty dimple in his chin. 

— Now, baby, Cissy Caffrey said. Say out big, big. I want a drink of water. 

And baby prattled after her: 

— A jink ajinkajawbo. 

Cissy Caffrey cuddled the wee chap for she was awfully fond of children, so patient with little 
sufferers and Tommy Caffrey could never be got to take his castor oil unless it was Cissy Caffrey that 
held his nose and promised him the scatty heel of the loaf or brown bread with golden syrup on. What 
a persuasive power that girl had! But to be sure baby Boardman was as good as gold, a perfect little 
dote in his new fancy bib. None of your spoilt beauties, Flora MacFlimsy sort, was Cissy Caffrey. A 
truerhearted lass never drew the breath of life, always with a laugh in her gipsylike eyes and a 
frolicsome word on her cherryripe red lips, a girl lovable in the extreme. And Edy Boardman laughed 
too at the quaint language of little brother. 

But just then there was a slight altercation between Master Tommy and Master Jacky. Boys will be 
boys and our two twins were no exception to this golden rule. The apple of discord was a certain 
castle of sand which Master Jacky had built and Master Tommy would have it right go wrong that it 
was to be architecturally improved by a frontdoor like the Martello tower had. But if Master Tommy 
was headstrong Master Jacky was selfwilled too and, true to the maxim that every little Irishman's 
house is his castle, he fell upon his hated rival and to such purpose that the wouldbe assailant came to 
grief and (alas to relate!) the coveted castle too. Needless to say the cries of discomfited Master 
Tommy drew the attention of the girl friends. 

— Come here, Tommy, his sister called imperative fy. At once! And you, Jacky, for shame to throw 
poor Tommy in the dirty sand. Wait till I catch you for that. 

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His eyes misty with unshed tears Master Tommy came at her call for their big sister's word was law 
with the twins. And in a sad plight he was too after his misadventure. His little man-o'-war top and 
unmentionables were full of sand but Cissy was a past mistress in the art of smoothing over life's tiny 
troubles and very quickly not one speck of sand was to be seen on his smart little suit. Still the blue 
eyes were glistening with hot tears that would well up so she kissed away the hurtness and shook her 
hand at Master Jacky the culprit and said if she was near him she wouldn't be far from him, her eyes 
dancing in admonition. 

— Nasty bold Jacky! she cried. 

She put an arm round the little mariner and coaxed winningry: 

— What's your name? Butter and cream? 

— Tell us who is your sweetheart, spoke Edy Boardman. Is Cissy your sweetheart? 

— Nao, tearful Tommy said. 

— Is Edy Boardman your sweetheart? Cissy queried. 

— Nao, Tommy said. 

— I know, Edy Boardman said none too amiably with an arch glance from her shortsighted eyes. I 
know who is Tommy's sweetheart. Gerty is Tommy's sweetheart. 

— Nao, Tommy said on the verge of tears. 

Cissy's quick motherwit guessed what was amiss and she whispered to Edy Boardman to take him 
there behind the pushcar where the gentleman couldn't see and to mind he didn't wet his new tan 
shoes. 

But who was Gerty? 

Gerty MacDowell who was seated near her companions, lost in thought, gazing far away into the 
distance was, in very truth, as fair a specimen of winsome Irish girlhood as one could wish to see. She 
was pronounced beautiful by all who knew her though, as folks often said, she was more a Gittrap 
than a MacDowelL Her figure was slight and graceful, inclining even to fragility but those ironjelloids 
she had been taking of late had done her a world of good much better than the Widow Welch's female 
pills and she was much better of those discharges she used to get and that tired feeling. The waxen 
pallor of her face was almost spiritual in its ivorylike purity though her rosebud mouth was a genuine 
Cupid's bow, Greekry perfect. Her hands were of finery veined alabaster with tapering fingers and as 
white as lemonjuice and queen of ointments could make them though it was not true that she used to 
wear kid gloves in bed or take a mik footbath either. Bertha Supple told that once to Edy Boardman, 
a deliberate lie, when she was black out at daggers drawn with Gerty (the girl chums had of course 
their little tiffs from time to time like the rest of mortals) and she told her not to let on whatever she did 
that it was her that told her or she'd never speak to her again. No. Honour where honour is due. There 
was an innate refinement, a languid queenly hauteur about Gerty which was unmistakably evidenced 
in her delicate hands and higharched instep. Had kind fate but willed her to be bom a gentlewoman of 
high degree in her own right and had she only received the benefit of a good education Gerty 
MacDowell might easily have held her own beside any lady in the land and have seen herself 
exquisitely gowned with jewels on her brow and patrician suitors at her feet vying with one another to 
pay their devoirs to her. Mayhap it was this, the love that might have been, that lent to her 
softryfeatured face at whiles a look, tense with suppressed meaning, that imparted a strange yearning 
tendency to the beautiful eyes, a charm few could resist. Why have women such eyes of witchery? 
Getty's were of the bluest Irish blue, set off by lustrous lashes and dark expressive brows. Time was 
when those brows were not so silkiry seductive. It was Madame Vera Verity, directress of the 

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Woman Beautiful page of the Princess Novelette, who had first advised her to try eyebrowleine which 
gave that haunting expression to the eyes, so becoming in leaders of fashion, and she had never 
regretted it. Then there was blushing scientifically cured and how to be tall increase your height and 
you have a beautiful face but your nose? That would suit Mrs Dignam because she had a button one. 
But Gerty's crowning glory was her wealth of wonderful hair. It was dark brown with a natural wave 
in it. She had cut it that very morning on account of the new moon and it nestled about her pretty head 
in a profusion of luxuriant clusters and pared her nails too, Thursday for wealth And just now at Edy's 
words as a telltale flush, delicate as the faintest rosebloom, crept into her cheeks she looked so lovely 
in her sweet girlish shyness that of a surety God's fair land of Ireland did not hold her equal 

For an instant she was silent with rather sad downcast eyes. She was about to retort but something 
checked the words on her tongue. Inclination prompted her to speak out: dignity told her to be silent. 
The pretty lips pouted awhile but then she glanced up and broke out into a joyous little laugh which 
had in it all the freshness of a young May morning. She knew right well, no-one better, what made 
squinty Edy say that because of him cooling in his attentions when it was simply a lovers' quarrel As 
per usual somebody's nose was out of joint about the boy that had the bicycle off the London bridge 
road always riding up and down in front of her window. Only now his father kept him in in the 
evenings studying hard to get an exhibition in the intermediate that was on and he was going to go to 
Trinity college to study for a doctor when he left the high school like his brother W. E. Wylie who was 
racing in the bicycle races in Trinity college university. Little recked he perhaps for what she felt, that 
dull aching void in her heart sometimes, piercing to the core. Yet he was young and perchance he 
might learn to love her in time. They were protestants in his family and of course Gerty knew Who 
came first and after Him the Blessed Virgin and then Saint Joseph But he was undeniably handsome 
with an exquisite nose and he was what he looked, every inch a gentleman, the shape of his head too 
at the back without his cap on that she would know anywhere something off the common and the way 
he turned the bicycle at the lamp with his hands off the bars and also the nice perfume of those good 
cigarettes and besides they were both of a size too he and she and that was why Edy Boardman 
thought she was so frightfully clever because he didn't go and ride up and down in front of her bit of a 
garden. 

Gerty was dressed simply but with the instinctive taste of a votary of Dame Fashion for she felt that 
there was just a might that he might be out. A neat blouse of electric blue selftinted by dolly dyes 
(because it was expected in the Lady's Pictorial that electric blue would be worn) with a smart vee 
opening down to the division and kerchief pocket (in which she always kept a piece of cottonwool 
scented with her favourite perfume because the handkerchief spoiled the sit) and a navy threequarter 
skirt cut to the stride showed off her slim graceful figure to perfection. She wore a coquettish little love 
of a hat of wideleaved nigger straw contrast trimmed with an underbrim of eggbtue chenille and at the 
side a butterfly bow of silk to tone. All Tuesday week afternoon she was hunting to match that chenille 
but at last she found what she wanted at Clery's summer sales, the very it, slightly shopsoiled but you 
would never notice, seven fingers two and a penny. She did it up all by herself and what joy was hers 
when she tried it on then, smiling at the lovely reflection which the mirror gave back to her! And when 
she put it on the waterjug to keep the shape she knew that that would take the shine out of some 
people she knew. Her shoes were the newest thing in footwear (Edy Boardman prided herself that she 
was very petite but she never had a foot like Gerty MacDowell, a five, and never would ash oak or 
elm) with patent toecaps and just one smart buckle over her higharched instep. Her wellturned ankle 
displayed its perfect proportions beneath her skirt and just the proper amount and no more of her 
shapely limbs encased in finespun hose with highspliced heels and wide garter tops. As for undies they 
were Gerty's chief care and who that knows the fluttering hopes and fears of sweet seventeen (though 
Gerty would never see seventeen again) can find it in his heart to blame her? She had four dinky sets 
with awfully pretty stitchery, three garments and nighties extra, and each set slotted with different 
coloured ribbons, rosepink, pale blue, mauve and peagreen, and she aired them herself and blued 
them when they came home from the wash and ironed them and she had a brickbat to keep the iron 

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on because she wouldn't trust those washerwomen as far as she'd see them scorching the things. She 
was wearing the blue for luck, hoping against hope, her own colour and lucky too for a bride to have a 
bit of blue somewhere on her because the green she wore that day week brought grief because his 
father brought him in to study for the intermediate exhibition and because she thought perhaps he might 
be out because when she was dressing that morning she nearly slipped up the old pair on her inside 
out and that was for Lick and lovers' meeting if you put those things on inside out or if they got untied 
that he was thinking about you so long as it wasn't of a Friday. 

And yet and yet! That strained look on her face! A gnawing sorrow is there all the time. Her very 
soul is in her eyes and she would give worlds to be in the privacy of her own familiar chamber where, 
giving way to tears, she could have a good cry and relieve her pentup feelingsthough not too much 
because she knew how to cry nicely before the mirror. You are lovely, Gerty, it said. The paly light of 
evening falls upon a face infinitely sad and wistful Gerty MacDowell yearns in vain. Yes, she had 
known from the very first that her daydream of a marriage has been arranged and the weddingbells 
ringing for Mrs Reggy Wylie T. C. D. (because the one who married the elder brother would be Mrs 
Wylie) and in the fashionable intelligence Mrs Gertrude Wylie was wearing a sumptuous confection of 
grey trimmed with expensive blue fox was not to be. He was too young to understand. He would not 
believe in love, a woman's birthright. The night of the party long ago in Stoer's (he was still in short 
trousers) when they were alone and he stole an arm round her waist she went white to the very lips. 
He called her little one in a strangely husky voice and snatched a half kiss (the first!) but it was only the 
end of her nose and then he hastened from the room with a remark about refreshments. Impetuous 
fellow! Strength of character had never been Reggy Wylie's strong point and he who would woo and 
win Gerty MacDowell must be a man among men. But waiting, always waiting to be asked and it was 
leap year too and would soon be over. No prince charming is her beau ideal to lay a rare and 
wondrous love at her feet but rather a manly man with a strong quiet face who had not found his ideal, 
perhaps his hair slightly flecked with grey, and who would understand, take her in his sheltering arms, 
strain her to him in all the strength of his deep passionate nature and comfort her with a long long kiss. 
It would be like heaven. For such a one she yearns this balmy summer eve. With all the heart of her 
she longs to be his only, his affianced bride for riches for poor, in sickness in health, till death us two 
part, from this to this day forward. 

And while Edy Boardman was with little Tommy behind the pushcar she was just thinking would the 
day ever come when she could call herself his little wife to be. Then they could talk about her till they 
went blue in the face, Bertha Supple too, and Edy, little spitfire, because she would be twentytwo in 
November. She would care for him with creature comforts too for Gerty was womanly wise and 
knew that a mere man liked that feeling of hominess. Her griddlecakes done to a goldenbrown hue 
and queen Ann's pudding of delightful creaminess had won golden opinions from all because she had a 
kicky hand also for lighting a fire, dredge in the fine selfraising flour and always stir in the same 
direction, then cream the milk and sugar and whisk well the white of eggs though she didn't like the 
eating part when there were any people that made her shy and often she wondered why you couldn't 
eat something poetical like violets or roses and they would have a beautifully appointed drawingroom 
with pictures and engravings and the photograph of grandpapa Giltrap's lovely dog Garryowen that 
almost talked it was so human and chintz covers for the chairs and that silver toastrack in Clery's 
summer jumble sales like they have in rich houses. He would be tall with broad shoulders (she had 
always admired tall men for a husband) with glistening white teeth under his carefully trimmed 
sweeping moustache and they would go on the continent for their honeymoon (three wonderful 
weeks!) and then, when they settled down in a nice snug and cosy little homely house, every morning 
they would both have brekky, simple but perfectly served, for their own two selves and before he 
went out to business he would give his dear little wifey a good hearty hug and gaze for a moment deep 
down into her eyes. 

Edy Boardman asked Tommy Caffrey was he done and he said yes so then she buttoned up his 

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little knickerbockers for him and told him to run off and play with Jacky and to be good now and not 
to fight. But Tommy said he wanted the ball and Edy told him no that baby was playing with the ball 
and if he took it there'd be wigs on the green but Tommy said it was his ball and he wanted his ball 
and he pranced on the ground, if you please. The temper of him! O, he was a man already was little 
Tommy Caffrey since he was out of pinnies. Edy told him no, no and to be off now with him and she 
told Cissy Caffrey not to give in to him 

— You're not my sister, naughty Tommy said. It's my ball. 

But Cissy Caffrey told baby Boardman to look up, look up high at her finger and she snatched the 
ball quickly and threw it along the sand and Tommy after it in full career, having won the day. 



— Anything for a quiet life, laughed Ciss. 



And she tickled tiny tot's two cheeks to make him forget and played here's the lord mayor, here's 
his two horses, here's his gingerbread carriage and here he walks in, chinchopper, chinchopper, 
chinchopper chin But Edy got as cross as two sticks about him getting his own way like that from 
everyone always petting him 

— I'd like to give him something, she said, so I would, where I won't say. 

— On the beeoteetom, laughed Cissy merrily. 

Gerty MacDowell bent down her head and crimsoned at the idea of Cissy saying an unladylike 
thing like that out loud she'd be ashamed of her life to say, flushing a deep rosy red, and Edy 
Boardman said she was sure the gentleman opposite heard what she said. But not a pin cared Ciss. 

— Let him! she said with a pert toss of her head and a piquant tilt of her nose. Give it to him too on 
the same place as quick as I'd look at him 

Madcap Ciss with her golliwog curls. You had to laugh at her sometimes. For instance when she 
asked you would you have some more Chinese tea and jaspberry ram and when she drew the jugs 
too and the men's faces on her nails with red ink make you split your sides or when she wanted to go 
where you know she said she wanted to run and pay a visit to the Miss White. That was just like 
Cissycums. O, and will you ever forget her the evening she dressed up in her father's suit and hat and 
the burned cork moustache and walked down Tritonville road, smoking a cigarette. There was none 
to come up to her for fun. But she was sincerity itself, one of the bravest and truest hearts heaven ever 
made, not one of your twofaced things, too sweet to be wholesome. 

And then there came out upon the air the sound of voices and the pealing anthem of the organ. It 
was the men's temperance retreat conducted by the missioner, the reverend John Hughes S. J., rosary, 
sermon and benediction of the Most Blessed Sacrament. They were there gathered together without 
distinction of social class (and a most edifying spectacle it was to see) in that simple fane beside the 
waves, after the storms of this weary world, kneeling before the feet of the immaculate, reciting the 
litany of Our Lady of Loreto, beseeching her to intercede for them, the old familiar words, holy Mary, 
holy virgin of virgins. How sad to poor Gerty's ears! Had her father only avoided the clutches of the 
demon drink, by taking the pledge or those powders the drink habit cured in Pearson's Weekly, she 
might now be rolling in her carriage, second to none. Over and over had she told herself that as she 
mused by the dying embers in a brown study without the lamp because she hated two lights or 
oftentimes gazing out of the window dreamily by the hour at the rain falling on the rusty bucket, 
thinking. But that vile decoction which has ruined so many hearths and homes had cist its shadow over 
her childhood days. Nay, she had even witnessed in the home circle deeds of violence caused by 
intemperance and had seen her own father, a prey to the fumes of intoxication, forget himself 
completely for if there was one thing of all things that Gerty knew it was that the man who lifts his hand 
to a woman save in the way of kindness, deserves to be branded as the lowest of the low. 

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And still the voices sang in supplication to the Virgin most powerful, Virgin most merciM And 
Gerry, rapt in thought, scarce saw or heard her companions or the twins at their boyish gambols or the 
gentleman offSandymount green that Cissy Caflrey called the man that was so like himself passing 
along the strand taking a short walk. You never saw him any way screwed but still and for all that she 
would not like him for a father because he was too old or something or on account of his face (it was a 
palpable case of Doctor Fell) or his carbuncfy nose with the pimples on it and his sandy moustache a 
bit white under his nose. Poor father! With all his faults she loved him still when he sang Tell me, 
Mary, how to woo thee or My love and cottage near Rochelle and they had stewed cockles and 
lettuce with Lazenbys salad dressing for supper and when he sang The moon hath raised with Mr 
Dignam that died suddenly and was buried, God have mercy on him, from a stroke. Her mother's 
birthday that was and Charley was home on his holidays and Tom and Mr Dignam and Mrs and Patsy 
and Freddy Dignam and they were to have had a group taken No- one would have thought the end 
was so near. Now he was laid to rest. And her mother said to him to let that be a warning to him for 
the rest of his days and he couldn't even go to the funeral on account of the gout and she had to go 
into town to bring him the letters and samples from his office about Catesby's cork lino, artistic, 
standard designs, fit for a palace, gives tiptop wear and always bright and cheery in the home. 

A sterling good daughter was Gerty just like a second mother in the house, a ministering angel too 
with a little heart worth its weight in gold. And when her mother had those raging splitting headaches 
who was it rubbed the menthol cone on her forehead but Gerty though she didn't like her mother's 
taking pinches of snuff and that was the only single thing they ever had words about, taking snuff 
Everyone thought the world of her for her gentle ways. It was Gerty who turned off the gas at the main 
every night and it was Gerty who tacked up on the wall of that place where she never forgot every 
fortnight the chlorate of lime Mr Tunney the grocer's Christmas almanac, the picture of halcyon days 
where a young gentleman in the costume they used to wear then with a threecornered hat was offering 
a bunch of flowers to his ladylove with oldtime chivalry through her lattice window. You could see 
there was a story behind it. The colours were done something lovely. She was in a soft clinging white 
in a studied attitude and the gentleman was in chocolate and he looked a thorough aristocrat. She 
often looked at them dreamily when she went there for a certain purpose and felt her own arms that 
were white and soft just like hers with the sleeves back and thought about those times because she 
had found out in Walker's pronouncing dictionary that belonged to grandpapa Giltrap about the 
halcyon days what they meant. 

The twins were now playing in the most approved brotherly fashion till at last Master Jacky who 
was really as bold as brass there was no getting behind that deliberately kicked the ball as hard as 
ever he could down towards the seaweedy rocks. Needless to say poor Tommy was not slow to 
voice his dismay but luckily the gentleman in black who was sitting there by himself came gallantry to 
the rescue and intercepted the ball Our two champions claimed their plaything with lusty cries and to 
avoid trouble Cissy Caflrey called to the gentleman to throw it to her please. The gentleman aimed the 
ball once or twice and then threw it up the strand towards Cissy Caflrey but it rolled down the slope 
and stopped right under Gerty's skirt near the little pool by the rock. The twins clamoured again for it 
and Cissy told her to kick it away and let them fight for it so Gerty drew back her foot but she wished 
their stupid ball hadn't come rolling down to her and she gave a kick but she missed and Edy and 
Cissy laughed. 

— If you fail try again, Edy Boardman said. 

Gerty smiled assent and bit her lip. A delicate pink crept into her pretty cheek but she was 
determined to let them see so she just lifted her skirt a little but just enough and took good aim and 
gave the ball a jolly good kick and it went ever so far and the two twins after it down towards the 
shingle. Pure jealousy of course it was nothing else to draw attention on account of the gentleman 
opposite looking. She felt the warm flush, a danger signal always with Gerty MacDowell, surging and 
flaming into her cheeks. Till then they had only exchanged glances of the most casual but now under 

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the brim of her new hat she ventured a look at him and the face that met her gaze there in the twilight, 
wan and strangely drawn, seemed to her the saddest she had ever seen. 

Through the open window of the church the fragrant incense was wafted and with it the fragrant 
names of her who was conceived without stain of original sin, spiritual vessel, pray for us, honourable 
vessel, pray for us, vessel of singular devotion, pray for us, mystical rose. And careworn hearts were 
there and toilers for their dairy bread and many who had erred and wandered, their eyes wet with 
contrition but for all that bright with hope for the reverend father Father Hughes had told them what 
the great saint Bernard said in his famous prayer of Mary, the most pious Virgin's intercessory power 
that it was not recorded in any age that those who implored her powerful protection were ever 
abandoned by her. 

The twins were now playing again right merrily for the troubles of childhood are but as fleeting 
summer showers. Cissy Caffrey played with baby Boardman till he crowed with glee, clapping baby 
hands in air. Peep she cried behind the hood of the pushcar and Edy asked where was Cissy gone and 
then Cissy popped up her head and cried ah! and, my word, didn't the little chap enjoy that! And then 
she told him to say papa. 

— Say papa, baby. Say pa pa pa pa pa pa pa. 

And baby did his level best to say it for he was very intelligent for eleven months everyone said and 
big for his age and the picture of health, a perfect little bunch of love, and he would certainly turn out 
to be something great, they said. 

— Hajajajahaja. 

Cissy wiped his little mouth with the dribbling bib and wanted him to sit up properly and say pa pa 
pa but when she undid the strap she cried out, holy saint Denis, that he was possing wet and to double 
the half blanket the other way under him Of course his infant majesty was most obstreperous at such 
toilet formalities and he let everyone know it: 

— Habaa baaaahabaaa baaaa. 

And two great big lovely big tears coursing down his cheeks. It was all no use soothering him with 
no, nono, baby, no and telling him about the geegee and where was the puflpuff but Ciss, always 
readywitted, gave him in his mouth the teat of the suckingbottle and the young heathen was quickly 
appeased. 

Gerty wished to goodness they would take their squalling baby home out of that and not get on her 
nerves, no hour to be out, and the little brats of twins. She gazed out towards the distant sea. It was 
like the paintings that man used to do on the pavement with all the coloured chalks and such a pity too 
leaving them there to be all blotted out, the evening and the clouds coming out and the Bailey light on 
Howth and to hear the music like that and the perfume of those incense they burned in the church like 
a kind of waft. And while she gazed her heart went pitapat. Yes, it was her he was looking at, and 
there was meaning in his look. His eyes burned into her as though they would search her through and 
through, read her very soul Wonderful eyes they were, superbly expressive, but could you trust them? 
People were so queer. She could see at once by his dark eyes and his pale intellectual face that he 
was a foreigner, the image of the photo she had of Martin Harvey, the matinee idol, only for the 
moustache which she preferred because she wasn't stagestruck like Winny Rippingham that wanted 
they two to always dress the same on account of a play but she could not see whether he had an 
aquiline nose or a slightly retrousse from where he was sitting. He was in deep mourning, she could 
see that, and the story of a haunting sorrow was written on his face. She would have given worlds to 
know what it was. He was looking up so intently, so still, and he saw her kick the ball and perhaps he 
could see the bright steel buckles of her shoes if she swung them like that thoughtfully with the toes 
down. She was glad that something told her to put on the transparent stockings thinking Reggy Wylie 

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might be out but that was for away. Here was that of which she had so often dreamed. It was he who 
mattered and there was joy on her foce because she wanted him because she felt instinctively that he 
was like no-one else. The very heart of the girlwoman went out to him, her dreamhusband, because 
she knew on the instant it was him. If he had suffered, more sinned against than sinning, or even, even, 
if he had been himself a sinner, a wicked man, she cared not. Even if he was a protestant or methodist 
she could convert him easily if he truly loved her. There were wounds that wanted healing with 
heartbalm She was a womanly woman not like other flighty girls unfeminine he had known, those 
cyclists showing off what they hadn't got and she just yearned to know all, to forgive all if she could 
make him foil in love with her, make him forget the memory of the past. Then mayhap he would 
embrace her gentry, like a real man, crushing her soft body to him, and love her, his ownest girlie, for 
herself alone. 

Refuge of sinners. Comfortress of the afflicted. Ora pro nobis. Well has it been said that 
whosoever prays to her with faith and constancy can never be lost or cast away: and fitly is she too a 
haven of refuge for the afflicted because of the seven dolours which transpierced her own heart. Gerty 
could picture the whole scene in the church, the stained glass windows lighted up, the candles, the 
flowers and the blue banners of the blessed Virgin's sodality and Father Conroy was helping Canon 
O'Hanlon at the altar, carrying things in and out with his eyes cast down He looked almost a saint and 
his confessionbox was so quiet and clean and dark and his hands were just like white wax and if ever 
she became a Dominican nun in their white habit perhaps he might come to the convent for the novena 
of Saint Dominic. He told her that time when she told him about that in confession, crimsoning up to 
the roots of her hair for fear he could see, not to be troubled because that was only the voice of nature 
and we were all subject to nature's laws, he said, in this life and that that was no sin because that came 
from the nature of woman instituted by God, he said, and that Our Blessed Lady herself said to the 
archangel Gabriel be it done unto me according to Thy Word. He was so kind and holy and often and 
often she thought and thought could she work a ruched teacosy with embroidered floral design for him 
as a present or a clock but they had a clock she noticed on the mantelpiece white and gold with a 
canarybird that came out of a little house to tell the time the day she went there about the flowers for 
the forty hours' adoration because it was hard to know what sort of a present to give or perhaps an 
album of illuminated views of Dublin or some place. 

The exasperating little brats of twins began to quarrel again and Jacky threw the ball out towards 
the sea and they both ran after it. Little monkeys common as ditchwater. Someone ought to take them 
and give them a good hiding for themselves to keep them in their places, the both of them And Cissy 
and Edy shouted after them to come back because they were afraid the tide might come in on them 
and be drowned. 

— Jacky! Tommy! 

Not they! What a great notion they had! So Cissy said it was the very last time she'd ever bring 
them out. She jumped up and called them and she ran down the slope past him, tossing her hair behind 
her which had a good enough colour if there had been more of it but with all the thingamerry she was 
always rubbing into it she couldn't get it to grow long because it wasn't natural so she could just go and 
throw her hat at it. She ran with long gandery strides it was a wonder she didn't rip up her skirt at the 
side that was too tight on her because there was a lot of the tomboy about Cissy Caffrey and she was 
a forward piece whenever she thought she had a good opportunity to show and just because she was 
a good runner she ran like that so that he could see all the end of her petticoat running and her skinny 
shanks up as for as possible. It would have served her just right if she had tripped up over something 
accidentally on purpose with her high crooked French heels on her to make her look tall and got a fine 
tumble. Tableau! That would have been a very charming expose for a gentleman like that to witness. 

Queen of angels, queen of patriarchs, queen of prophets, of all saints, they prayed, queen of the 
most holy rosary and then Father Conroy handed the thurible to Canon O'Hanlon and he put in the 

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incense and censed the Blessed Sacrament and Cissy Caffrey caught the two twins and she was 
itching to give them a ringing good clip on the ear but she didn't because she thought he might be 
watching but she never made a bigger mistake in all her life because Gerty could see without looking 
that he never took his eyes off of her and then Canon O'Hanlon handed the thurible back to Father 
Conroy and knelt down looking up at the Blessed Sacrament and the choir began to sing the Tantum 
ergo and she just swung her foot in and out in time as the music rose and fell to the Tantumer gosa 
cramen turn. Three and eleven she paid for those stockings in Sparrow's of George's street on the 
Tuesday, no the Monday before Easter and there wasn't a brack on them and that was what he was 
looking at, transparent, and not at her insignificant ones that had neither shape nor form (the cheek of 
her!) because he had eyes in his head to see the difference for himself 

Cissy came up along the strand with the two twins and their ball with her hat anyhow on her to one 
side after her run and she did look a streel tugging the two kids along with the flimsy blouse she bought 
only a fortnight before like a rag on her back and a bit of her petticoat hanging like a caricature. Gerty 
just took off her hat for a moment to settle her hair and a prettier, a daintier head of nutbrown tresses 
was never seen on a girl's shoulders — a radiant little vision, in sooth almost maddening in its 
sweetness. You would have to travel many a long mile before you found a head of hair the like of that. 
She could almost see the swift answering flash of admiration in his eyes that set her tingling in every 
nerve. She put on her hat so that she could see from underneath the brim and swung her buckled shoe 
faster for her breath caught as she caught the expression in his eyes. He was eying her as a snake eyes 
its prey. Her woman's instinct told her that she had raised the devil in him and at the thought a burning 
scarlet swept from throat to brow till the lovely colour of her face became a glorious rose. 

Edy Boardman was noticing it too because she was squinting at Gerty, half smiling, with her specs 
like an old maid, pretending to nurse the baby. Irritable little gnat she was and always would be and 
that was why no- one could get on with her poking her nose into what was no concern of hers. And 
she said to Gerty: 

— A penny for your thoughts. 

— What? replied Gerty with a smile reinforced by the whitest of teeth. I was only wondering was it 
late. 

Because she wished to goodness they'd take the snottynosed twins and their babby home to the 
mischief out of that so that was why she just gave a gentle hint about its being late. And when Cissy 
came up Edy asked her the time and Miss Cissy, as glib as you like, said it was half past kissing time, 
time to kiss again But Edy wanted to know because they were told to be in early. 

— Wait, said Cissy, I'll run ask my uncle Peter over there what's the time by his conundrum. 

So over she went and when he saw her coming she could see him take his hand out of his pocket, 
getting nervous, and beginning to play with his watchchain, looking up at the church. Passionate nature 
though he was Gerty could see that he had enormous control over himself One moment he had been 
there, fascinated by a loveliness that made him gaze, and the next moment it was the quiet gravefaced 
gentleman, selfcontrol expressed in every line of his distinguishedlooking figure. 

Cissy said to excuse her would he mind please telling her what was the right time and Gerty could 
see him taking out his watch listening to it and looking up and clearing his throat and he said he was 
very sorry his watch was stopped but he thought it must be after eight because the sun was set. His 
voice had a cultured ring in it and though he spoke in measured accents there was a suspicion of a 
quiver in the mellow tones. Cissy said thanks and came back with her tongue out and said uncle said 
his waterworks were out of order. 

Then they sang the second verse of the Tantum ergo and Canon O'Hanlon got up again and 
censed the Blessed Sacrament and knelt down and he told Father Conroy that one of the candles was 

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just going to set fire to the flowers and Father Conroy got up and settled it all right and she could see 
the gentleman winding his watch and listening to the works and she swung her leg more in and out in 
time. It was getting darker but he could see and he was looking all the time that he was winding the 
watch or whatever he was doing to it and then he put it back and put his hands back into his pockets. 
She felt a kind of a sensation rushing all over her and she knew by the feel of her scalp and that 
irritation against her stays that that thing must be coming on because the last time too was when she 
clipped her hair on account of the moon His dark eyes fixed themselves on her again drinking in her 
every contour, literally worshipping at her shrine. If ever there was undisguised admiration in a man's 
passionate gaze it was there plain to be seen on that man's face. It is for you, Gertrude MacDowell, 
and you know it. 

Edy began to get ready to go and it was high time for her and Gerty noticed that that little hint she 
gave had had the desired effect because it was a long way along the strand to where there was the 
place to push up the pushcar and Cissy took off the twins' caps and tidied their hair to make herself 
attractive of course and Canon O'Hanlon stood up with his cope poking up at his neck and Father 
Conroy handed him the card to read off and he read out Panem de coelo praestitisti eis and Edy 
and Cissy were talking about the time all the time and asking her but Gerty could pay them back in 
their own coin and she just answered with scathing politeness when Edy asked her was she 
heartbroken about her best boy throwing her over. Gerty winced sharply. A brief cold blaze shone 
from her eyes that spoke volumes of scorn immeasurable. It hurt — O yes, it cut deep because Edy 
had her own quiet way of saying things like that she knew would wound like the confounded little cat 
she was. Gerty's lips parted swiftly to frame the word but she fought back the sob that rose to her 
throat, so slim, so flawless, so beautifully moulded it seemed one an artist might have dreamed of She 
had loved him better than he knew. Lighthearted deceiver and fickle like all his sex he would never 
understand what he had meant to her and for an instant there was in the blue eyes a quick stinging of 
tears. Their eyes were probing her mercilessly but with a brave effort she sparkled back in sympathy 
as she glanced at her new conquest for them to see. 

— O, responded Gerty, quick as lightning, laughing, and the proud head flashed up. I can throw my 
cap at who I like because it's leap year. 

Her words rang out crystalclear, more musical than the cooing of the ringdove, but they cut the 
silence icily. There was that in her young voice that told that she was not a one to be lightly trifled with. 
As for Mr Reggy with his swank and his bit of money she could just chuck him aside as if he was so 
much filth and never again would she cast as much as a second thought on him and tear his silly 
postcard into a dozen pieces. And if ever after he dared to presume she could give him one look of 
measured scorn that would make him shrivel up on the spot. Miss puny little Edy's countenance fell to 
no slight extent and Gerty could see by her looking as black as thunder that she was simply in a 
towering rage though she hid it, the little kinnatt, because that shaft had struck home for her petty 
jealousy and they both knew that she was something aloof, apart, in another sphere, that she was not 
of them and never would be and there was somebody else too that knew it and saw it so they could 
put that in their pipe and smoke it. 

Edy straightened up baby Boardman to get ready to go and Cissy tucked in the ball and the spades 
and buckets and it was high time too because the sandman was on his way for Master Boardman 
junior. And Cissy told him too that billy winks was coming and that baby was to go deedaw and baby 
looked just too ducky, laughing up out of his gleeful eyes, and Cissy poked him like that out of fun in 
his wee fat tummy and baby, without as much as by your leave, sent up his compliments to all and 
sundry on to his brandnew dribbling bib. 

— O my! Puddenypie! protested Ciss. He has his bib destroyed. 

The slight contretemps claimed her attention but in two twos she set that little matter to rights. 

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Gerty stifled a smothered exclamation and gave a nervous cough and Edy asked what and she was 
just going to tell her to catch it while it was flying but she was ever ladylike in her deportment so she 
simply passed it off" with consummate tact by saying that that was the benediction because just then the 
bell rang out from the steeple over the quiet seashore because Canon O'Hanlon was up on the altar 
with the veil that Father Conroy put round his shoulders giving the benediction with the Blessed 
Sacrament in his hands. 

How moving the scene there in the gathering twilight, the last glimpse of Erin, the touching chime of 
those evening bells and at the same time a bat flew forth from the ivied belfry through the dusk, hither, 
thither, with a tiny lost cry. And she could see far away the lights of the lighthouses so picturesque she 
would have loved to do with a box of paints because it was easier than to make a man and soon the 
lamplighter would be going his rounds past the presbyterian church grounds and along by shady 
Tritonville avenue where the couples walked and lighting the lamp near her window where Reggy 
Wylie used to turn his freewheel like she read in that book The Lamplighter by Miss Cummins, 
author of Mabel Vaughan and other tales. For Gerty had her dreams that no-one knew of She loved 
to read poetry and when she got a keepsake from Bertha Supple of that lovely confession album with 
the coralpink cover to write her thoughts in she laid it in the drawer of her toilettable which, though it 
did not err on the side of luxury, was scrupulously neat and clean It was there she kept her girlish 
treasure trove, the tortoiseshell combs, her child of Mary badge, the whiterose scent, the 
eyebrowleine, her alabaster pouncetbox and the ribbons to change when her things came home from 
the wash and there were some beautiful thoughts written in it in violet ink that she bought in Hefys of 
Dame Street for she felt that she too could write poetry if she could only express herself like that poem 
that appealed to her so deeply that she had copied out of the newspaper she found one evening round 
the potherbs. Art thou real, my ideal? it was called by Louis J Walsh, Magherafelt, and after there 
was something about twilight, wilt thou ever? and ofttimes the beauty of poetry, so sad in its 
transient loveliness, had misted her eyes with silent tears for she felt that the years were slipping by for 
her, one by one, and but for that one shortcoming she knew she need fear no competition and that 
was an accident coming down Dalkey hill and she always tried to conceal it. But it must end, she felt. 
If she saw that magic Lire in his eyes there would be no holding back for her. Love laughs at 
locksmiths. She would make the great sacrifice. Her every effort would be to share his thoughts. 
Dearer than the whole world would she be to him and gild his days with happiness. There was the 
allimportant question and she was dying to know was he a married man or a widower who had lost his 
wife or some tragedy like the nobleman with the foreign name from the land of song had to have her 
put into a madhouse, cruel only to be kind. But even if- — what then? Would it make a very great 
difference? From everything in the least indelicate her finebred nature instinctively recoiled. She 
loathed that sort of person, the fallen women off the accommodation walk beside the Dodder that 
went with the soldiers and coarse men with no respect for a girl's honour, degrading the sex and being 
taken up to the police station No, no: not that. They would be just good friends like a big brother and 
sister without all that other in spite of the conventions of Society with a big ess. Perhaps it was an old 
flame he was in mourning for from the days beyond recall She thought she understood. She would try 
to understand him because men were so different. The old love was waiting, waiting with little white 
hands stretched out, with blue appealing eyes. Heart of mine! She would follow, her dream of love, 
the dictates of her heart that told her he was her all in all, the only man in all the world for her for love 
was the master guide. Nothing else mattered. Come what might she would be wild, untrammelled, 
free. 

Canon O'Hanlon put the Blessed Sacrament back into the tabernacle and genuflected and the choir 
sang Laudate Dominum omnes gentes and then he locked the tabernacle door because the 
benediction was over and Father Conroy handed him his hat to put on and crosscat Edy asked wasn't 
she coming but Jacky Caffrey called out: 

— O, look, Cissy! 

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And they all looked was it sheet lightning but Tommy saw it too over the trees beside the church, 
blue and then green and purple. 

— It's fireworks, Cissy Cafitey said. 

And they all ran down the strand to see over the houses and the church, helterskelter, Edy with the 
pushcar with baby Boardman in it and Cissy holding Tommy and Jacky by the hand so they wouldn't 
M running. 

— Come on, Gerty, Cissy called. It's the bazaar fireworks. 

But Gerty was adamant. She had no intention of being at their beck and call If they could run like 
rossies she could sit so she said she could see from where she was. The eyes that were fastened upon 
her set her pulses tingling. She looked at him a moment, meeting his glance, and a light broke in upon 
her. Whitehot passion was in that face, passion silent as the grave, and it had made her his. At last they 
were left alone without the others to pry and pass remarks and she knew he could be trusted to the 
death steadfast, a sterling man, a man of inflexible honour to his fingertips. His hands and face were 
working and a tremour went over her. She leaned back far to look up where the fireworks were and 
she caught her knee in her hands so as not to fall back looking up and there was no-one to see only 
him and her when she revealed all her graceful beautitulry shaped legs like that, supply soft and 
delicately rounded, and she seemed to hear the panting of his heart, his hoarse breathing, because she 
knew too about the passion of men like that, hotblooded, because Bertha Supple told her once in 
dead secret and made her swear she'd never about the gentleman lodger that was staying with them 
out of the Congested Districts Board that had pictures cut out of papers of those skirtdancers and 
highkickers and she said he used to do something not very nice that you could imagine sometimes in 
the bed. But this was altogether different from a thing like that because there was all the difference 
because she could almost feel him draw her face to his and the first quick hot touch of his handsome 
lips. Besides there was absolution so long as you didn't do the other thing before being married and 
there ought to be women priests that would understand without your telling out and Cissy Caffrey too 
sometimes had that dreamy kind of dreamy look in her eyes so that she too, my dear, and Winny 
Rippingham so mad about actors' photographs and besides it was on account of that other thing 
coming on the way it did. 

And Jacky Caffrey shouted to look, there was another and she leaned back and the garters were 
blue to match on account of the transparent and they all saw it and they all shouted to look, look, there 
it was and she leaned back ever so far to see the fireworks and something queer was flying through 
the air, a soft thing, to and fro, dark. And she saw a long Roman candle going up over the trees, up, 
up, and, in the tense hush they were all breathless with excitement as it went higher and higher and she 
had to lean back more and more to look up after it, high, high almost out of sight, and her face was 
suffused with a divine, an entrancing blush from straining back and he could see her other things too, 
nainsook knickers, the fabric that caresses the skin, better than those other pettiwidth, the green, four 
and eleven, on account of being white and she let him and she saw that he saw and then it went so high 
it went out of sight a moment and she was trembling in every limb from being bent so far back that he 
had a full view high up above her knee where no- one ever not even on the swing or wading and she 
wasn't ashamed and he wasn't either to look in that immodest way like that because he couldn't resist 
the sight of the wondrous reveaknent half offered like those skirtdancers behaving so immodest before 
gentlemen looking and he kept on looking, looking. She would fain have cried to him chokingly, held 
out her snowy slender arms to him to come, to feel his lips laid on her white brow, the cry of a young 
girl's love, a little strangled cry, wrung from her, that cry that has rung through the ages. And then a 
rocket sprang and bang shot blind blank and O ! then the Roman candle burst and it was like a sigh of 
O! and everyone cried O! O! in raptures and it gushed out of it a stream of rain gold hair threads and 
they shed and ah! they were all greeny dewy stars falling with golden, O so lovely, O, soft, sweet, 
soft! 

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Then all melted away dewily in the grey air: all was silent. Ah! She glanced at him as she bent 
forward quickly, a pathetic little glance of piteous protest, of shy reproach under which he coloured 
like a girl He was leaning back against the rock behind. Leopold Bloom (for it is he) stands silent, with 
bowed head before those young guileless eyes. What a brute he had been! At it again? A fair unsullied 
soul had called to him and, wretch that he was, how had he answered? An utter cad he had been! He 
of all men! But there was an infinite store of mercy in those eyes, for him too a word of pardon even 
though he had erred and sinned and wandered. Should a girl tell? No, a thousand times no. That was 
their secret, only theirs, alone in the hiding twilight and there was none to know or tell save the little bat 
that flew so softly through the evening to and fro and little bats don't tell 

Cissy Caffrey whistled, imitating the boys in the football field to show what a great person she was: 
and then she cried: 

— Gerty! Gerty! We're going. Come on. We can see from farther up. 

Gerty had an idea, one of love's little ruses. She slipped a hand into her kerchief pocket and took 
out the wadding and waved in reply of course without letting him and then slipped it back. Wonder if 
he's too far to. She rose. Was it goodbye? No. She had to go but they would meet again, there, and 
she would dream of that till then, tomorrow, of her dream of yester eve. She drew herself up to her full 
height. Their souls met in a last lingering glance and the eyes that reached her heart, full of a strange 
shining, hung enraptured on her sweet flowerlike face. She half smiled at him wanly, a sweet forgiving 
smile, a smile that verged on tears, and then they parted. 

Slowly, without looking back she went down the uneven strand to Cissy, to Edy to Jacky and 
Tommy Caffrey, to little baby Boardman It was darker now and there were stones and bits of wood 
on the strand and slippy seaweed. She walked with a certain quiet dignity characteristic of her but with 
care and very slowly because — because Gerty MacDowell was. . . 

Tight boots? No. She's lame! O! 

Mr Bloom watched her as she limped away. Poor girl! That's why she's left on the shelf and the 
others did a sprint. Thought something was wrong by the cut of her jib. Jilted beauty. A defect is ten 
times worse in a woman. But makes them polite. Glad I didn't know it when she was on show. Hot 
little devil all the same. I wouldn't mind. Curiosity like a nun or a negress or a girl with glasses. That 
squinty one is delicate. Near her monthlies, I expect, makes them feel ticklish. I have such a bad 
headache today. Where did I put the letter? Yes, all right. All kinds of crazy longings. Licking pennies. 
Girl in Tranquilla convent that nun told me liked to smell rock oil. Virgins go mad in the end I suppose. 
Sister? How many women in Dublin have it today? Martha, she. Something in the air. That's the moon. 
But then why don't all women menstruate at the same time with the same moon, I mean? Depends on 
the time they were born I suppose. Or all start scratch then get out of step. Sometimes Molly and 
Mifry together. Anyhow I got the best of that. Damned glad I didn't do it in the bath this morning over 
her silly I will punish you letter. Made up for that tramdriver this morning. That gouger M'Coy stopping 
me to say nothing. And his wife engagement in the country valise, voice like a pickaxe. Thankful for 
small mercies. Cheap too. Yours for the asking. Because they want it themselves. Their natural 
craving. Shoals of them every evening poured out of offices. Reserve better. Don't want it they throw 
it at you. Catch em alive, O. Pity they can't see themselves. A dream of wellfilled hose. Where was 
that? Ah, yes. Mutoscope pictures in Capel street: for men only. Peeping Tom Willy's hat and what 
the girls did with it. Do they snapshot those girls or is it all a fake? Lingerie does it. Felt for the curves 
inside her deshabille. Excites them also when they're. I'm all clean come and dirty me. And they like 
dressing one another for the sacrifice. Mifry delighted with Molly's new blouse. At first. Put them all on 
to take them all off Molly. Why I bought her the violet garters. Us too: the tie he wore, his lovely 
socks and turnedup trousers. He wore a pair of gaiters the night that first we met. His lovely shirt was 
shining beneath his what? of jet. Say a woman loses a charm with every pin she takes out. Pinned 
together. O, Mairy lost the pin of her. Dressed up to the nines for somebody. Fashion part of their 

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charm. Just changes when you're on the track of the secret. Except the east: Mary, Martha: now as 
then. No reasonable offer refused. She wasn't in a hurry either. Always off to a fellow when they are. 
They never forget an appointment. Out on spec probably. They believe in chance because like 
themselves. And the others inclined to give her an odd dig. Girl friends at school, arms round each 
other's necks or with ten fingers locked, kissing and whispering secrets about nothing in the convent 
garden. Nuns with whitewashed faces, cool coifs and their rosaries going up and down, vindictive too 
for what they can't get. Barbed wire. Be sure now and write to me. And I'll write to you. Now won't 
you? Molly and Josie Powell. Till Mr Right comes along, then meet once in a blue moon. Tableau! O, 
look who it is for the love of God! How are you at all? What have you been doing with yourself? Kiss 
and delighted to, kiss, to see you. Picking holes in each other's appearance. You're looking splendid. 
Sister souls. Showing their teeth at one another. How many have you left? Wouldn't lend each other a 
pinch of salt. 

Ah! 

Devils they are when that's coming on them Dark devilish appearance. Molly often told me feel 
things a ton weight. Scratch the sole of my foot. O that way! O, that's exquisite! Feel it myself too. 
Good to rest once in a way. Wonder if it's bad to go with them then. Safe in one way. Turns milk, 
makes fiddlestrings snap. Something about withering plants I read in a garden. Besides they say if the 
flower withers she wears she's a flirt. All are. Daresay she felt 1. When you feel like that you often 
meet what you feel. Liked me or what? Dress they look at. Always know a fellow courting: collars 
and cuffs. Well cocks and lions do the same and stags. Same time might prefer a tie undone or 
something. Trousers? Suppose I when I was? No. Gentry does it. Dislike rough and tumble. Kiss in 
the dark and never tell. Saw something in me. Wonder what. Sooner have me as I am than some poet 
chap with bearsgrease plastery hair, lovelock over his dexter optic. To aid gentleman in literary. Ought 
to attend to my appearance my age. Didn't let her see me in profile. Still, you never know. Pretty girls 
and ugly men marrying. Beauty and the beast. Besides I can't be so if Molly. Took off her hat to show 
her hair. Wide brim. Bought to hide her face, meeting someone might know her, bend down or carry a 
bunch of flowers to smell. Hair strong in rut. Ten bob I got for Molly's combings when we were on the 
rocks in Holies street. Why not? Suppose he gave her money. Why not? All a prejudice. She's worth 
ten, fifteen, more, a pound. What? I think so. All that for nothing. Bold hand: Mrs Marion. Did I forget 
to write address on that letter like the postcard I sent to Ffynn? And the day I went to Drimmie's 
without a necktie. Wrangle with Molly it was put me off No, I remember. Richie Goulding: he's 
another. Weighs on his mind. Funny my watch stopped at half past four. Dust. Shark liver oil they use 
to clean. Could do it myself Save. Was that just when he, she? 

O, he did. Into her. She did. Done. 

Ah! 

Mr Bloom with careful hand recomposed his wet shirt. O Lord, that little limping devi Begins to 
feel cold and clammy. Aftereffect not pleasant. Still you have to get rid of it someway. They don't 
care. Complimented perhaps. Go home to nicey bread and milky and say night prayers with the 
kiddies. Well, aren't they? See her as she is spoil ai Must have the stage setting, the rouge, costume, 
position, music. The name too. Amours of actresses. Nell Gwynn, Mrs Bracegirdle, Maud 
Branscombe. Curtain up. Moonlight silver effulgence. Maiden discovered with pensive bosom Little 
sweetheart come and kiss me. Still, I feeL The strength it gives a man. That's the secret of it. Good job 
I let off there behind the wall coming out of Dignam's. Cider that was. Otherwise I couldn't have. 
Makes you want to sing after. Lacaus esant taratara. Suppose I spoke to her. What about? Bad 
plan however if you don't know how to end the conversation. Ask them a question they ask you 
another. Good idea if you're stuck. Gain time. But then you're in a cart. Wonderful of course if you 
say: good evening, and you see she's on for it: good evening. O but the dark evening in the Appian 
way I nearly spoke to Mrs Clinch O thinking she was. Whew! Girl in Meath street that night. All the 

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dirty things I made her say. All wrong of course. My arks she called it. It's so hard to find one who. 
Aho! If you don't answer when they solicit must be horrible for them till they harden. And kissed my 
hand when I gave her the extra two shillings. Parrots. Press the button and the bird will squeak. Wish 
she hadn't called me sir. O, her mouth in the dark! And you a married man with a single girl! That's 
what they enjoy. Taking a man from another woman Or even hear of it. Different with me. Glad to get 
away from other chap's wife. Eating off his cold plate. Chap in the Burton today spitting back 
gumchewed gristle. French letter still in my pocketbook. Cause of half the trouble. But might happen 
sometime, I don't think. Come in, all is prepared. I dreamt. What? Worst is beginning. How they 
change the venue when it's not what they like. Ask you do you like mushrooms because she once 
knew a gentleman who. Or ask you what someone was going to say when he changed his mind and 
stopped. Yet if I went the whole hog, say: I want to, something like that. Because I did. She too. 
Offend her. Then make it up. Pretend to want something awfully, then cry off for her sake. Flatters 
them She must have been thinking of someone else all the time. What harm? Must since she came to 
the use of reason, he, he and he. First kiss does the trick. The propitious moment. Something inside 
them goes pop. Mushy like, tell by their eye, on the sly. First thoughts are best. Remember that till 
their dying day. Molly, lieutenant Mulvey that kissed her under the Moorish wall beside the gardens. 
Fifteen she told me. But her breasts were developed. Fell asleep then. After Glencree dinner that was 
when we drove home. Featherbed mountain Gnashing her teeth in sleep. Lord mayor had his eye on 
her too. Val Dillon. Apoplectic. 

There she is with them down there for the fireworks. My fireworks. Up like a rocket, down like a 
stick. And the children, twins they must be, waiting for something to happen. Want to be grownups. 
Dressing in mother's clothes. Time enough, understand all the ways of the world. And the dark one 
with the mop head and the nigger mouth I knew she could whistle. Mouth made for that. Like Molly. 
Why that highclass whore in Jammet's wore her veil only to her nose. Would you mind, please, telling 
me the right time? I'll tell you the right time up a dark lane. Say prunes and prisms forty times every 
morning, cure for fat lips. Caressing the little boy too. Onlookers see most of the game. Of course they 
understand birds, animals, babies. In their line. 

Didn't look back when she was going down the strand. Wouldn't give that satisfaction. Those girls, 
those girls, those lovely seaside girls. Fine eyes she had, clear. It's the white of the eye brings that out 
not so much the pupil. Did she know what I? Course. Like a cat sitting beyond a dog's jump. Women 
never meet one like that Wilkins in the high school drawing a picture of Venus with all his belongings 
on show. Call that innocence? Poor idiot! His wife has her work cut out for her. Never see them sit on 
a bench marked Wet Paint. Eyes all over them Look under the bed for what's not there. Longing to 
get the fright of their lives. Sharp as needles they are. When I said to Molly the man at the corner of 
Cuffe street was goodlooking, thought she might like, twigged at once he had a false arm Had, too. 
Where do they get that? Typist going up Roger Greene's stairs two at a time to show her 
understandings. Handed down from father to, mother to daughter, I mean. Bred in the bone. Mifry for 
example drying her handkerchief on the mirror to save the ironing. Best place for an ad to catch a 
woman's eye on a mirror. And when I sent her for Molly's Paisley shawl to Prescott's by the way that 
ad I must, carrying home the change in her stocking! Clever little minx. I never told her. Neat way she 
carries parcels too. Attract men, small thing like that. Holding up her hand, shaking it, to let the blood 
flow back when it was red. Who did you learn that from? Nobody. Something the nurse taught me. O, 
don't they know! Three years old she was in front of Molly's dressingtable, just before we left 
Lombard street west. Me have a nice pace. Mullingar. Who knows? Ways of the world. Young 
student. Straight on her pins anyway not like the other. Still she was game. Lord, I am wet. Devil you 
are. Swell of her calf Transparent stockings, stretched to breaking point. Not like that frump today. 
A. E. Rumpled stockings. Or the one in Grafton street. White. Wow! Beef to the heel. 

A monkey puzzle rocket burst, spluttering in darting crackles. Zrads and zrads, zrads, zrads. And 
Cissy and Tommy and Jacky ran out to see and Edy after with the pushcar and then Gerty beyond the 

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curve of the rocks. Will she? Watch! Watch! See! Looked round. She smelt an onion. Darling, I saw, 
your. I saw all 

Lord! 

Did me good all the same. Off colour after Kiernan's, Dignam's. For this relief much thanks. In 
Hamlet, that is. Lord! It was all things combined. Excitement. When she leaned back, felt an ache at 
the butt of my tongue. Your head it simply swirls. He's right. Might have made a worse fool of myself 
however. Instead of talking about nothing. Then I will tell you all Still it was a kind of language 
between us. It couldn't be? No, Gerty they called her. Might be false name however like my name and 
the address Dolphin's barn a blind. 

Her maiden name was Jemina Brown And she lived with her mother in Irishtown. 

Place made me think of that I suppose. All tarred with the same brush Wiping pens in their 
stockings. But the ball rolled down to her as if it understood. Every bullet has its billet. Course I never 
could throw anything straight at schooL Crooked as a ram's horn. Sad however because it lasts only a 
few years till they settle down to potwalloping and papa's pants will soon fit Willy and fuller's earth for 
the baby when they hold him out to do ah ah. No soft job. Saves them Keeps them out of harm's 
way. Nature. Washing child, washing corpse. Dignam Children's hands always round them Cocoanut 
skulls, monkeys, not even closed at first, sour milk in their swaddles and tainted curds. Oughtn't to 
have given that child an empty teat to suck. Fill it up with wind. Mrs Beaufoy, Purefoy. Must call to 
the hospitaL Wonder is nurse Callan there still She used to look over some nights when Molly was in 
the Coffee Palace. That young doctor O'Hare I noticed her brushing his coat. And Mrs Breen and 
Mrs Dignam once like that too, marriageable. Worst of all at night Mrs Duggan told me in the City 
Arms. Husband rolling in drunk, stink of pub off him like a polecat. Have that in your nose in the dark, 
whiff of stale boose. Then ask in the morning: was I drunk last night? Bad policy however to fault the 
husband. Chickens come home to roost. They stick by one another like glue. Maybe the women's 
fault also. That's where Molly can knock spots off them It's the blood of the south. Moorish. Also the 
form, the figure. Hands felt for the opulent. Just compare for instance those others. Wife locked up at 
home, skeleton in the cupboard. Allow me to introduce my. Then they trot you out some kind of a 
nondescript, wouldn't know what to call her. Always see a fellow's weak point in his wife. Still there's 
destiny in it, falling in love. Have their own secrets between them Chaps that would go to the dogs if 
some woman didn't take them in hand. Then little chits of girls, height of a shilling in coppers, with little 
hubbies. As God made them he matched them Sometimes children rum out well enough Twice 
nought makes one. Or old rich chap of seventy and blushing bride. Marry in May and repent in 
December. This wet is very unpleasant. Stuck. Well the foreskin is not back. Better detach 

Ow! 

Other hand a sixfooter with a wifey up to his watchpocket. Long and the short of it. Big he and little 
she. Very strange about my watch Wristwatches are always going wrong. Wonder is there any 
magnetic influence between the person because that was about the time he. Yes, I suppose, at once. 
Cat's away, the mice will play I remember looking in Pill lane. Also that now is magnetism. Back of 
everything magnetism Earth for instance pulling this and being pulled. That causes movement. And 
time, well that's the time the movement takes. Then if one thing stopped the whole ghesabo would stop 
bit by bit. Because it's all arranged. Magnetic needle tells you what's going on in the sun, the stars. 
Little piece of steel iron When you hold out the fork. Come. Come. Tip. Woman and man that is. 
Fork and steeL Molly, he. Dress up and look and suggest and let you see and see more and defy you 
if you're a man to see that and, like a sneeze coming, legs, look, look and if you have any guts in you. 
Tip. Have to let fly. 

Wonder how is she feeling in that region. Shame all put on before third person. More put out about 
a hole in her stocking. Molly, her underjaw stuck out, head back, about the farmer in the ridingboots 

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and spurs at the horse show. And when the painters were in Lombard street west. Fine voice that 
fellow had. How Giuglini began Smell that I did. Like flowers. It was too. Violets. Came from the 
turpentine probably in the paint. Make their own use of everything. Same time doing it scraped her 
slipper on the floor so they wouldn't hear. But lots of them can't kick the beam, I think. Keep that 
thing up for hours. Kind of a general all round over me and half down my back. 

Wait. Hm Hm Yes. That's her perfume. Why she waved her hand. I leave you this to think of me 
when I'm far away on the pillow. What is it? Heliotrope? No. Hyacinth? Hm Roses, I think. She'd 
like scent of that kind. Sweet and cheap: soon sour. Why Mo fry likes opoponax. Suits her, with a little 
jessamine mixed. Her high notes and her low notes. At the dance night she met him, dance of the 
hours. Heat brought it out. She was wearing her black and it had the perfume of the time before. 
Good conductor, is it? Or bad? Light too. Suppose there's some connection. For instance if you go 
into a cellar where it's dark. Mysterious thing too. Why did I smell it only now? Took its time in 
coming like herself, slow but sure. Suppose it's ever so many millions of tiny grains blown across. Yes, 
it is. Because those spice islands, Cinghalese this morning, smell them leagues off Tell you what it is. 
It's like a fine fine veil or web they have all over the skin, fine like what do you call it gossamer, and 
they're always spinning it out of them, fine as anything, like rainbow colours without knowing it. Clings 
to everything she takes off Vamp of her stockings. Warm shoe. Stays. Drawers: little kick, taking 
them off Byby till next time. Also the cat likes to sniff in her shift on the bed. Know her smell in a 
thousand. Bathwater too. Reminds me of strawberries and cream Wonder where it is really. There or 
the armpits or under the neck. Because you get it out of all holes and corners. Hyacinth perfume made 
of oil of ether or something. Muskrat. Bag under their tails. One grain pour off odour for years. Dogs 
at each other behind. Good evening. Evening. How do you sniff? Hm. Hm Very well, thank you. 
Animals go by that. Yes now, look at it that way. We're the same. Some women, instance, warn you 
off when they have their period. Come near. Then get a hogo you could hang your hat on. Like what? 
Potted herrings gone stale or. Boof! Please keep off the grass. 

Perhaps they get a man smell off us. What though? Cigary gloves long John had on his desk the 
other day. Breath? What you eat and drink gives that. No. Mansmefr I mean. Must be connected with 
that because priests that are supposed to be are different. Women buzz round it like flies round 
treacle. Railed off the alar get on to it at any cost. The tree of forbidden priest. O, father, will you? 
Let me be the first to. That diffuses itself all through the body, permeates. Source of life. And it's 
extremely curious the smell. Celery sauce. Let me. 

Mr Bloom inserted his nose. Hm Into the. Hm Opening of his waistcoat. Almonds or. No. 
Lemons it is. Ah no, that's the soap. 

O by the by that lotion. I knew there was something on my mind. Never went back and the soap 
not paid. Dislike carrying bottles like that hag this morning. Hynes might have paid me that three 
shillings. I could mention Meagher's just to remind him Still if he works that paragraph Two and nine. 
Bad opinion of me he'll have. Call tomorrow. How much do I owe you? Three and nine? Two and 
nine, sir. Ah Might stop him giving credit another time. Lose your customers that way. Pubs do. 
Fellows run up a bill on the slate and then slinking around the back streets into somewhere else. 

Here's this nobleman passed before. Blown in from the bay. Just went as far as turnback. Always 
at home at dinnertime. Looks mangled out: had a good tuck in. Enjoying nature now. Grace after 
meals. After supper walk a mile. Sure he has a small bank balance somewhere, government sit. Walk 
after him now make him awkward like those newsboys me today. Still you learn something. See 
ourselves as others see us. So long as women don't mock what matter? That's the way to find out. 
Ask yourself who is he now. The Mystery Man on the Beach, prize titbit story by Mr Leopold 
Bloom. Payment at the rate of one guinea per column. And that fellow today at the graveside in the 
brown macintosh Corns on his kismet however. Healthy perhaps absorb all the. Whistle brings rain 
they say. Must be some somewhere. Salt in the Ormond damp. The body feels the atmosphere. Old 

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Betty's joints are on the rack. Mother Shipton's prophecy that is about ships around they try in the 
twinkling. No. Signs of rain it is. The royal reader. And distant hills seem coming nigh. 

Howth Bailey light. Two, four, six, eight, nine. See. Has to change or they might think it a house. 
Wreckers. Grace Darling. People afraid of the dark. Also glowworms, cyclists: lightingup time. Jewels 
diamonds flash better. Women. Light is a kind of reassuring. Not going to hurt you Better now of 
course than long ago. Country roads. Run you through the small guts for nothing. Still two types there 
are you bob against. Scowl or smile. Pardon! Not at all Best time to spray plants too in the shade 
after the sun Some light still. Red rays are longest. Roygbiv Vance taught us: red, orange, yellow, 
green, blue, indigo, violet. A star I see. Venus? Can't tell yet. Two. When three it's night. Were those 
nightclouds there all the time? Looks like a phantom ship. No. Wait. Trees are they? An optical 
illusion. Mirage. Land of the setting sun this. Homerule sun setting in the southeast. My native land, 
goodnight. 

Dew falling. Bad for you, dear, to sit on that stone. Brings on white fluxions. Never have little baby 
then less he was big strong fight his way up through. Might get piles myself Sticks too like a summer 
cold, sore on the mouth. Cut with grass or paper worst. Friction of the position. Like to be that rock 
she sat on. O sweet little, you don't know how nice you looked. I begin to like them at that age. Green 
apples. Grab at all that offer. Suppose it's the only time we cross legs, seated. Also the library today: 
those girl graduates. Happy chairs under them But it's the evening influence. They feel all that. Open 
like flowers, know their hours, sunflowers, Jerusalem artichokes, in ballrooms, chandeliers, avenues 
under the lamps. Nightstock in Mat Dillon's garden where I kissed her shoulder. Wish I had a fill 
length oilpainting of her then June that was too I wooed. The year returns. History repeats itself Ye 
crags and peaks I'm with you once again. Life, love, voyage round your own little world. And now? 
Sad about her lame of course but must be on your guard not to feel too much pity. They take 
advantage. 

All quiet on Howth now. The distant hills seem Where we. The rhododendrons. I am a fool 
perhaps. He gets the plums, and I the phimstones. Where I come in. All that old hill has seen. Names 
change: that's all Lovers: yum yum 

Tired I feel now. Will I get up? O wait. Drained all the manhood out of me, little wretch. She kissed 
me. Never again. My youth. Only once it comes. Or hers. Take the train there tomorrow. No. 
Returning not the same. Like kids your second visit to a house. The new I want. Nothing new under 
the sun. Care of P. O. Dolphin's Bam. Are you not happy in your? Naughty darling. At Dolphin's barn 
charades in Luke Doyle's house. Mat Dillon and his bevy of daughters: Tiny, Arty, Floey, Maimy, 
Louy, Hetty. Molly too. Eightyseven that was. Year before we. And the old major, partial to his drop 
of spirits. Curious she an only child, I an only child. So it returns. Think you're escaping and run into 
yourself Longest way round is the shortest way home. And just when he and she. Circus horse 
walking in a ring. Rip van Winkle we played. Rip: tear in Henny Doyle's overcoat. Van: breadvan 
delivering. Winkle: cockles and periwinkles. Then I did Rip van Winkle coming back. She leaned on 
the sideboard watching. Moorish eyes. Twenty years asleep in Sleepy Hollow. All changed. 
Forgotten. The young are old. His gun rusty from the dew. 

Ba. What is that flying about? Swallow? Bat probably. Thinks I'm a tree, so blind. Have birds no 
smell? Metempsychosis. They believed you could be changed into a tree from grief Weeping willow. 
Ba. There he goes. Funny little beggar. Wonder where he lives. Belfry up there. Very likely. Hanging 
by his heels in the odour of sanctity. Bell scared him out, I suppose. Mass seems to be over. Could 
hear them all at it. Pray for us. And pray for us. And pray for us. Good idea the repetition. Same thing 
with ads. Buy from us. And buy from us. Yes, there's the light in the priest's house. Their frugal meal. 
Remember about the mistake in the valuation when I was in Thorn's. Twentyeight it is. Two houses 
they have. Gabriel Conroy's brother is curate. Ba. Again. Wonder why they come out at night like 
mice. They're a mixed breed. Birds are like hopping mice. What frightens them, light or noise? Better 

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sit still. All instinct like the bird in drouth got water out of the end of a jar by throwing in pebbles. Like 
a little man in a cloak he is with tiny hands. Weeny bones. Almost see them shimmering, kind of a 
bfuey white. Colours depend on the light you see. Stare the sun for example like the eagle then look at 
a shoe see a blotch blob yellowish. Wants to stamp his trademark on everything Instance, that cat this 
morning on the staircase. Colour of brown turf Say you never see them with three colours. Not true. 
That half tabbywhite tortoiseshell in the City Arms with the letter em on her forehead. Body fifty 
different colours. Howth a while ago amethyst. Glass flashing That's how that wise man what's his 
name with the burning glass. Then the heather goes on fire. It can't be tourists' matches. What? 
Perhaps the sticks dry rub together in the wind and light. Or broken bottles in the furze act as a 
burning glass in the sun. Archimedes. I have it! My memory's not so bad. 

Ba. Who knows what they're always flying for. Insects? That bee last week got into the room 
playing with his shadow on the ceiling. Might be the one bit me, come back to see. Birds too. Never 
find out. Or what they say. Like our small talk. And says she and says he. Nerve they have to fly over 
the ocean and back. Lots must be killed in storms, telegraph wires. Dreadful life sailors have too. Big 
brutes of oceangoing steamers floundering along in the dark, lowing out like seacows. Faugh a 
Ballagh! Out of that, bloody curse to you! Others in vessels, bit of a handkerchief sail, pitched about 
like snuff at a wake when the stormy winds do blow. Married too. Sometimes away for years at the 
ends of the earth somewhere. No ends really because it's round. Wife in every port they say. She has 
a good job if she minds it till Johnny comes marching home again. If ever he does. Smelling the tail end 
of ports. How can they like the sea? Yet they do. The anchor's weighed. Off he sails with a scapular 
or a medal on him for luck. WelL And the tephilim no what's this they call it poor papa's father had on 
his door to touch That brought us out of the land of Egypt and into the house of bondage. Something 
in all those superstitions because when you go out never know what dangers. Hanging on to a plank or 
astride of a beam for grim life, lifebelt round him, gulping salt water, and that's the last of his nibs till the 
sharks catch hold of him Do fish ever get seasick? 

Then you have a beautiful calm without a cloud, smooth sea, placid, crew and cargo in smithereens, 
Davy Jones' locker, moon looking down so peacefuL Not my fault, old cockalorum 

A last lonely candle wandered up the sky from Mirus bazaar in search of funds for Mercer's 
hospital and broke, drooping, and shed a cluster of violet but one white stars. They floated, fell: they 
faded. The shepherd's hour: the hour of folding: hour of tryst. From house to house, giving his 
everwelcome double knock, went the nine o'clock postman, the glowworm's lamp at his belt gleaming 
here and there through the laurel hedges. And among the five young trees a hoisted lintstock lit the 
lamp at Leahy's terrace. By screens of lighted windows, by equal gardens a shrill voice went crying, 
wailing: Evening Telegraph, stop press edition! Result of the Gold Cup race! and from the door of 
Dignam's house a boy ran out and called. Twittering the bat flew here, flew there. Far out over the 
sands the coming surf crept, grey Howth settled for slumber, tired of long days, of yumyum 
rhododendrons (he was old) and felt gladly the night breeze lift, ruffle his fell of ferns. He lay but 
opened a red eye unsleeping, deep and slowly breathing, slumberous but awake. And far on Kish 
bank the anchored lightship twinkled, winked at Mr Bloom. 

Life those chaps out there must have, stuck in the same spot. Irish Lights board. Penance for their 
sins. Coastguards too. Rocket and breeches buoy and lifeboat. Day we went out for the pleasure 
cruise in the Erin's King, throwing them the sack of old papers. Bears in the zoo. Filthy trip. Drunkards 
out to shake up their livers. Puking overboard to feed the herrings. Nausea. And the women, fear of 
God in their faces. MiHy, no sign of funk. Her blue scarf loose, laughing. Don't know what death is at 
that age. And then their stomachs clean. But being lost they fear. When we hid behind the tree at 
Crumlin. I didn't want to. Mamma! Mamma! Babes in the wood. Frightening them with masks too. 
Throwing them up in the air to catch them I'll murder you. Is it only half fun? Or children playing 
battle. Whole earnest. How can people aim guns at each other. Sometimes they go off Poor kids! 
Only troubles wildfire and nettlerash Calomel purge I got her for that. After getting better asleep with 

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Molly. Very same teeth she has. What do they love? Another themselves? But the morning she chased 
her with the umbrella. Perhaps so as not to hurt. I felt her pulse. Ticking. Little hand it was: now big. 
Dearest Papli All that the hand says when you touch. Loved to count my waistcoat buttons. Her first 
stays I remember. Made me laugh to see. Little paps to begin with. Left one is more sensitive, I think. 
Mine too. Nearer the heart? Padding themselves out if fat is in fashion. Her growing pains at night, 
calling, wakening me. Frightened she was when her nature came on her first. Poor child! Strange 
moment for the mother too. Brings back her girlhood. Gibraltar. Looking fromBuena Vista. O'Hara's 
tower. The seabirds screaming. Old Barbary ape that gobbled all his family. Sundown, gunfire for the 
men to cross the lines. Looking out over the sea she told me. Evening like this, but clear, no clouds. I 
always thought I'd marry a lord or a rich gentleman coming with a private yacht. Buenas noches, 
senorita. El hombre ama la muchacha hermosa. Why me? Because you were so foreign from the 
others. 

Better not stick here all night like a limpet. This weather makes you dull Must be getting on for nine 
by the light. Go home. Too late for Leah, Lily of Killarney. No. Might be still up. Call to the hospital 
to see. Hope she's over. Long day I've had. Martha, the bath, funeral, house of Keyes, museum with 
those goddesses, Dedalus' song. Then that bawler in Barney Kiernan's. Got my own back there. 
Drunken ranters what I said about his God made him wince. Mistake to hit back. Or? No. Ought to 
go home and laugh at themselves. Always want to be swilling in company. Afraid to be alone like a 
child of two. Suppose he hit me. Look at it other way round. Not so bad then. Perhaps not to hurt he 
meant. Three cheers for IsraeL Three cheers for the sister-in-law he hawked about, three fangs in her 
mouth. Same style of beauty. Particularly nice old party for a cup of tea. The sister of the wife of the 
wild man of Borneo has just come to town. Imagine that in the early morning at close range. Everyone 
to his taste as Morris said when he kissed the cow. But Dignam's put the boots on it. Houses of 
mourning so depressing because you never know. Anyhow she wants the money. Must call to those 
Scottish Widows as I promised. Strange name. Takes it for granted we're going to pop off first. That 
widow on Monday was it outside Cramer's that looked at me. Buried the poor husband but 
progressing favourably on the premium. Her widow's mite. Well? What do you expect her to do? 
Must wheedle her way along. Widower I hate to see. Looks so forlorn Poor man O'Connor wife and 
five children poisoned by mussels here. The sewage. Hopeless. Some good matronly woman in a 
porkpie hat to mother him Take him in tow, platter face and a large apron. Ladies' grey flannelette 
bloomers, three shillings a pair, astonishing bargain. Plain and loved, loved for ever, they say. Ugly: no 
woman thinks she is. Love, lie and be handsome for tomorrow we die. See him sometimes walking 
about trying to find out who played the trick. U. p: up. Fate that is. He, not me. Also a shop often 
noticed. Curse seems to dog it. Dreamt last night? Wait. Something confused. She had red slippers 
on. Turkish. Wore the breeches. Suppose she does? Would I like her in pyjamas? Damned hard to 
answer. Nannetti's gone. Mailboat. Near Holyhead by now. Must nail that ad of Keyes's. Work 
Hynes and Crawford. Petticoats for Molly. She has something to put in them What's that? Might be 
money. 

Mr Bloom stooped and turned over a piece of paper on the strand. He brought it near his eyes and 
peered. Letter? No. Can't read. Better go. Better. I'm tired to move. Page of an old copybook. All 
those holes and pebbles. Who could count them? Never know what you find. Bottle with story of a 
treasure in it, thrown from a wreck. Parcels post. Children always want to throw things in the sea. 
Trust? Bread cast on the waters. What's this? Bit of stick. 

O! Exhausted that female has me. Not so young now. Will she come here tomorrow? Wait for her 
somewhere for ever. Must come back. Murderers do. Willi? 

Mr Bloom with his stick gentry vexed the thick sand at his foot. Write a message for her. Might 
remain. What? 



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Some flatfoot tramp on it in the morning. Useless. Washed away. Tide comes here. Saw a pool 
near her foot. Bend, see my face there, dark mirror, breathe on it, stirs. All these rocks with lines and 
scars and letters. O, those transparent! Besides they don't know. What is the meaning of that other 
world. I called you naughty boy because I do not like. 

AM. A. 

No room Let it go. 

Mr Bloom eftaced the letters with his slow boot. Hopeless thing sand. Nothing grows in it. All 
fades. No fear of big vessels coming up here. Except Guinness's barges. Round the Kish in eighty 
days. Done half by design. 

He flung his wooden pen away. The stick fell in silted sand, stuck. Now if you were trying to do 
that for a week on end you couldn't. Chance. We'll never meet again But it was lovely. Goodbye, 
dear. Thanks. Made me feel so young. 

Short snooze now if I had. Must be near nine. Liverpool boat long gone.. Not even the smoke. And 
she can do the other. Did too. And Belfast. I won't go. Race there, race back to Ennis. Let him Just 
close my eyes a moment. Won't sleep, though. Half dream It never comes the same. Bat again. No 
harm in him Just a few. 

O sweety all your little girlwhite up I saw dirty bracegirdle made me do love sticky we two naughty 
Grace darling she him half past the bed met him pike hoses frillies for Raoul de perfume your wife 
black hair heave under embon senorita young eyes Mulvey plump bubs me breadvan Winkle red 
slippers she rusty sleep wander years of dreams return tail end Agendath swoony lovey showed me 
her next year in drawers return next in her next her next. 

A bat flew. Here. There. Here. Far in the grey a bell chimed. Mr Bloom with open mouth his left 
boot sanded sideways, leaned, breathed. Just for a few 

Cuckoo 
Cuckoo 
Cuckoo. 

The clock on the mantelpiece in the priest's house cooed where Canon O'Hanlon and Father 
Conroy and the reverend John Hughes S. J. were taking tea and sodabread and butter and fried 
mutton chops with catsup and talking about 

Cuckoo 
Cuckoo 
Cuckoo. 

Because it was a little canarybird that came out of its little house to tell the time that Gerty 
MacDowell noticed the time she was there because she was as quick as anything about a thing like 
that, was Gerty MacDowell, and she noticed at once that that foreign gentleman that was sitting on the 
rocks looking was 

Cuckoo 
Cuckoo 
Cuckoo. 

Deshil Holies Eamus. Deshil Holies Eamus. Deshil Holies Eamus. 

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Send us bright one, light one, Horhorn, quickening and wombfruit. Send us bright one, light one, 
Horhorn, quickening and wombfruit. Send us bright one, light one, Horhorn, quickening and 
wombfruit. 

Hoopsa boyaboy hoopsa! Hoopsa boyaboy hoopsa! Hoopsa boyaboy hoopsa! 

Universally that person's acumen is esteemed very little perceptive concerning whatsoever matters 
are being held as most profitably by mortals with sapience endowed to be studied who is ignorant of 
that which the most in doctrine erudite and certainly by reason of that in them high mind's ornament 
deserving of veneration constantly maintain when by general consent they affirm that other 
circumstances being equal by no exterior splendour is the prosperity of a nation more efficaciously 
asserted than by the measure of how far forward may have progressed the tribute of its solicitude for 
that proliferent continuance which of evils the original if it be absent when fortunately present 
constitutes the certain sign of omnipotent nature's incorrupted benefaction. For who is there who 
anything of some significance has apprehended but is conscious that that exterior splendour may be the 
surface of a downwardtending hitulent reality or on the contrary anyone so is there unilluminated as not 
to perceive that as no nature's boon can contend against the bounty of increase so it behoves every 
most just citizen to become the exhortator and admonisher of his semblables and to tremble lest what 
had in the past been by the nation excellently commenced might be in the future not with similar 
excellence accomplished if an inverecund habit shall have gradually traduced the honourable by 
ancestors transmitted customs to that thither of profundity that that one was audacious excessively 
who would have the hardihood to rise affirming that no more odious offence can for anyone be than to 
oblivious neglect to consign that evangel simultaneously command and promise which on all mortals 
with prophecy of abundance or with diminution's menace that exalted of reiteratedfy procreating 
function ever irrevocably enjoined? 

It is not why therefore we shall wonder if, as the best historians relate, among the Celts, who 
nothing that was not in its nature admirable admired, the art of medicine shall have been highly 
honoured. Not to speak of hostels, leperyards, sweating chambers, plaguegraves, their greatest 
doctors, the O'Shiels, the O'Hickeys, the O'Lees, have sedulously set down the divers methods by 
which the sick and the relapsed found again health whether the malady had been the trembling 
withering or loose boyconnell flux. Certainly in every public work which in it anything of gravity 
contains preparation should be with importance commensurate and therefore a plan was by them 
adopted (whether by having preconsidered or as the maturation of experience it is difficult in being 
said which the discrepant opinions of subsequent inquirers are not up to the present congrued to 
render manifest) whereby maternity was so far from all accident possibility removed that whatever 
care the patient in that all hardest of woman hour chiefly required and not solely for the copiously 
opulent but also for her who not being sufficiently moneyed scarcely and often not even scarcely could 
subsist valiantly and for an inconsiderable emolument was provided. 

To her nothing already then and thenceforward was anyway able to be molestful for this chiefly felt 
all citizens except with proliferent mothers prosperity at all not to can be and as they had received 
eternity gods mortals generation to befit them her beholding, when the case was so hoving itself, 
parturient in vehicle thereward carrying desire immense among all one another was impelling on of her 
to be received into that domicile. O thing of prudent nation not merely in being seen but also even in 
being related worthy of being praised that they her by anticipation went seeing mother, that she by 
them suddenly to be about to be cherished had been begun she felt! 

Before born bliss babe had. Within womb won he worship. Whatever in that one case done 
commodiousfy done was. A couch by midwives attended with wholesome food reposeful, cleanest 
swaddles as though forthbringing were now done and by wise foresight set: but to this no less of what 
drugs there is need and surgical implements which are pertaining to her case not omitting aspect of all 
very distracting spectacles in various latitudes by our terrestrial orb offered together with images, 

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divine and human, the cogitation of which by sejunct females is to tumescence conducive or eases 
issue in the high sunbright wellbuilt fair home of mothers when, ostensibly far gone and reproductitive, 
it is come by her thereto to lie in, her term up. 

Some man that wayfaring was stood by housedoor at night's oncoming. Of Israel's folk was that 
man that on earth wandering far had fared. Stark ruth of man his errand that him lone led till that 
house. 

Of that house A. Home is lord. Seventy beds keeps he there teeming mothers are wont that they lie 
for to thole and bring forth bairns hale so God's angel to Mary quoth. Watchers tway there walk, 
white sisters in ward sleepless. Smarts they still, sickness soothing: in twelve moons thrice an hundred. 
Truest bedthanes they twain are, for Home holding wariest ward. 

In ward wary the watcher hearing come that man mildhearted eft rising with swire ywimpled to him 
her gate wide undid. Lo, levin leaping lightens in eyeblink Ireland's westward welkin. Full she drad that 
God the Wreaker all mankind would fordo with water for his evil sins. Christ's rood made she on 
breastbone and him drew that he would rathe infare under her thatch. That man her will wotting 
worthful went in Home's house. 

Loth to irk in Home's hall hat holding the seeker stood. On her stow he ere was living with dear 
wife and lovesome daughter that then over land and seafloor nine years had long outwandered. Once 
her in townhithe meeting he to her bow had not doffed. Her to forgive now he craved with good 
ground of her allowed that that of him swiftseen face, hers, so young then had looked. Light swift her 
eyes kindled, bloom of blushes his word winning. 

As her eyes then ongot his weeds swart therefor sorrow she feared. Glad after she was that ere 
adread was. Her he asked if O'Hare Doctor tidings sent from far coast and she with grameful sigh him 
answered that O'Hare Doctor in heaven was. Sad was the man that word to hear that him so heavied 
in bowels ruthftiL All she there told him, ruing death for friend so young, algate sore unwilling God's 
rightwiseness to withsay. She said that he had a fair sweet death through God His goodness with 
masspriest to be shriven, holy housel and sick men's oil to his limbs. The man then right earnest asked 
the nun of which death the dead man was died and the nun answered him and said that he was died in 
Mona Island through beftycrab three year agone come Childermas and she prayed to God the 
Allruthftil to have his dear soul in his undeathliness. He heard her sad words, in held hat sad staring. So 
stood they there both awhile in wanhope sorrowing one with other. 

Therefore, everyman, look to that last end that is thy death and the dust that gripeth on every man 
that is bom of woman for as he came naked forth from his mother's womb so naked shall he wend him 
at the last for to go as he came. 

The man that was come in to the house then spoke to the nursingwoman and he asked her how it 
fared with the woman that lay there in childbed. The nursingwoman answered him and said that that 
woman was in throes now full three days and that it would be a hard birth unneth to bear but that now 
in a little it would be. She said thereto that she had seen many births of women but never was none so 
hard as was that woman's birth. Then she set it all forth to him for because she knew the man that time 
was had lived nigh that house. The man hearkened to her words for he felt with wonder women's woe 
in the travail that they have of motherhood and he wondered to look on her face that was a fair face 
for any man to see but yet was she left after long years a handmaid. Nine twelve bloodflows chiding 
her childless. 

And whiles they spake the door of the castle was opened and there nighed them a mickle noise as 
of many that sat there at meat. And there came against the place as they stood a young learningknight 
yclept Dixon And the traveller Leopold was couth to him sithen it had happed that they had had ado 
each with other in the house of misericord where this learningknight lay by cause the traveller Leopold 

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came there to be healed for he was sore wounded in his breast by a spear wherewith a horrible and 
dreadful dragon was smitten him for which he did do make a salve of volatile salt and chrism as much 
as he might suffice. And he said now that he should go in to that castle for to make merry with them 
that were there. And the traveller Leopold said that he should go otherwhither for he was a man of 
cautels and a subtile. Also the lady was of his avis and repreved the learningknight though she trowed 
well that the traveller had said thing that was false for his subtility. But the learningknight would not 
hear say nay nor do her mandement ne have him in aught contrarious to his list and he said how it was 
a marvellous castle. And the traveller Leopold went into the castle for to rest him for a space being 
sore of limb after many marches environing in divers lands and sometime venery. 

And in the castle was set a board that was of the birchwood of Finkndy and it was upheld by four 
dwarftnen of that country but they durst not move more for enchantment. And on this board were 
frightful swords and knives that are made in a great cavern by swinking demons out of white flames 
that they fix then in the horns of buffalos and stags that there abound marvellously. And there were 
vessels that are wrought by magic of Mahound out of seasand and the air by a warlock with his breath 
that he biases in to them like to bubbles. And full fair cheer and rich was on the board that no wight 
could devise a fuller ne richer. And there was a vat of silver that was moved by craft to open in the 
which lay strange fishes withouten heads though misbelieving men nie that this be possible thing without 
they see it natheless they are so. And these fishes lie in an oily water brought there from Portugal land 
because of the fatness that therein is like to the juices of the olivepress. And also it was a marvel to see 
in that castle how by magic they make a compost out of fecund wheatkidneys out of Chaldee that by 
aid of certain angry spirits that they do in to it swells up wondrousry like to a vast mountain. And they 
teach the serpents there to entwine themselves up on long sticks out of the ground and of the scales of 
these serpents they brew out a brewage like to mead. 

And the learning knight let pour for childe Leopold a draught and halp thereto the while all they that 
were there drank every each. And childe Leopold did up his beaver for to pleasure him and took 
apertfy somewhat in amity for he never drank no manner of mead which he then put by and anon full 
privity he voided the more part in his neighbour glass and his neighbour nist not of this wile. And he sat 
down in that castle with them for to rest him there awhile. Thanked be Almighty God. 

This meanwhile this good sister stood by the door and begged them at the reverence of Jesu our 
alther liege Lord to leave their wassailing for there was above one quick with child, a gentle dame, 
whose time hied fast. Sir Leopold heard on the upfloor cry on high and he wondered what cry that it 
was whether of child or woman and I marvel, said he, that it be not come or now. Meseems it dureth 
overlong And he was ware and saw a franklin that hight Lenehan on that side the table that was older 
than any of the tother and for that they both were knights virtuous in the one emprise and eke by cause 
that he was elder he spoke to him full gentry. But, said he, or it be long too she will bring forth by God 
His bounty and have joy of her childing for she hath waited marvellous long. And the franklin that had 
drunken said, Expecting each moment to be her next. Also he took the cup that stood tofore him for 
him needed never none asking nor desiring of him to drink and, Now drink, said he, fully delectabfy, 
and he quaffed as far as he might to their both's health for he was a passing good man of his lustiness. 
And sir Leopold that was the goodliest guest that ever sat in scholars' hall and that was the meekest 
man and the kindest that ever laid husbandry hand under hen and that was the very truest knight of the 
world one that ever did minion service to lady gentle pledged him courtly in the cup. Woman's woe 
with wonder pondering. 

Now let us speak of that fellowship that was there to the intent to be drunken an they might. There 
was a sort of scholars along either side the board, that is to wit, Dixon yclept junior of saint Mary 
Merciable's with other his fellows Lynch and Madden, scholars of medicine, and the franklin that hight 
Lenehan and one from Alba Longa, one Crotthers, and young Stephen that had mien of a frere that 
was at head of the board and Costello that men clepen Punch Costello all long of a mastery of him 
erewhile gested (and of all them, reserved young Stephen, he was the most drunken that demanded 

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still of more mead) and beside the meek sir Leopold. But on young Malachi they waited for that he 
promised to have come and such as intended to no goodness said how he had broke his avow. And 
sir Leopold sat with them for he bore fast friendship to sir Simon and to this his son young Stephen 
and for that his languor becalmed him there after longest wanderings insomuch as they feasted him for 
that time in the honourablest manner. Ruth red him, love led on with will to wander, loth to leave. 

For they were right witty scholars. And he heard their aresouns each gen other as touching birth and 
righteousness, young Madden maintaining that put such case it were hard the wife to die (for so it had 
fallen out a matter of some year agone with a woman of Eblana in Home's house that now was 
trespassed out of this world and the self night next before her death all leeches and pothecaries had 
taken counsel of her case). And they said farther she should live because in the beginning, they said, 
the woman should bring forth in pain and wherefore they that were of this imagination affirmed how 
young Madden had said truth for he had conscience to let her die. And not few and of these was 
young Lynch were in doubt that the world was now right evil governed as it was never other howbeit 
the mean people believed it otherwise but the law nor his judges did provide no remedy. A redress 
God grant. This was scant said but all cried with one acclaim nay, by our Virgin Mother, the wife 
should live and the babe to die. In colour whereof they waxed hot upon that head what with argument 
and what for their drinking but the franklin Lenehan was prompt each when to pour them ale so that at 
the least way mirth might not lack. Then young Madden showed all the whole affair and said how that 
she was dead and how for holy religion sake by rede of palmer and bedesman and for a vow he had 
made to Saint Ultan of Arbraccan her goodman husband would not let her death whereby they were 
all wondrous grieved. To whom young Stephen had these words following: Murmur, sirs, is eke oft 
among lay folk. Both babe and parent now glorify their Maker, the one in limbo gloom, the other in 
purgefire. But, gramercy, what of those Godpossibled souls that we nightly impossibilise, which is the 
sin against the Holy Ghost, Very God, Lord and Giver of Life? For, sirs, he said, our List is brief We 
are means to those small creatures within us and nature has other ends than we. Then said Dixon 
junior to Punch Costello wist he what ends. But he had overmuch drunken and the best word he could 
have of him was that he would ever dishonest a woman whoso she were or wife or maid or leman if it 
so fortuned him to be delivered of his spleen of kistihead. Whereat Crotthers of Alba Longa sang 
young Malachi's praise of that beast the unicorn how once in the millennium he cometh by his horn, the 
other all this while, pricked forward with their jibes wherewith they did malice him, witnessing all and 
several by saint Foutinus his engines that he was able to do any manner of thing that lay in man to do. 
Thereat laughed they all right jocundly only young Stephen and sir Leopold which never durst laugh 
too open by reason of a strange humour which he would not bewray and also for that he rued for her 
that bare whoso she might be or wheresoever. Then spake young Stephen orgulous of mother Church 
that would cast him out of her bosom, of law of canons, of Lilith, patron of abortions, of bigness 
wrought by wind of seeds of brightness or by potency of vampires mouth to mouth or, as Virgilius 
saith, by the influence of the Occident or by the reek of moonflower or an she lie with a woman which 
her man has but lain with, effectu secuto, or peradventure in her bath according to the opinions of 
Averroes and Moses Maimonides. He said also how at the end of the second month a human soul 
was infused and how in all our holy mother foldeth ever souls for God's greater glory whereas that 
earthly mother which was but a dam to bear beastly should die by canon for so saith he that holdeth 
the fisherman's seal, even that blessed Peter on which rock was holy church for all ages founded. All 
they bachelors then asked of sir Leopold would he in like case so jeopard her person as risk life to 
save life. A wariness of mind he would answer as fitted all and, laying hand to jaw, he said 
dissembling, as his wont was, that as it was informed him, who had ever loved the art of physic as 
might a layman, and agreeing also with his experience of so seldomseen an accident it was good for 
that mother Church belike at one blow had birth and death pence and in such sort deliverfy he scaped 
their questions. That is truth, pardy, said Dixon, and, or I err, a pregnant word. Which hearing young 
Stephen was a marvellous glad man and he averred that he who stealeth from the poor lendeth to the 
Lord for he was of a wild manner when he was drunken and that he was now in that taking it 
appeared eftsoons. 

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But sir Leopold was passing grave maugre his word by cause he still had pity of the terrorcausing 
shrieking of shrill women in their labour and as he was minded of his good lady Marion that had borne 
him an only manchild which on his eleventh day on live had died and no man of art could save so dark 
is destiny. And she was wondrous stricken of heart for that evil hap and for his burial did him on a fan- 
corselet of lamb's wool, the flower of the flock, lest he might perish utterly and lie akeled (for it was 
then about the midst of the winter) and now Sir Leopold that had of his body no manchild for an hen- 
looked upon him his friend's son and was shut up in sorrow for his forepassed happiness and as sad as 
he was that him failed a son of such gentle courage (for all accounted him of real parts) so grieved he 
also in no less measure for young Stephen for that he lived riotously with those wastrels and murdered 
his goods with whores. 

About that present time young Stephen filled all cups that stood empty so as there remained but 
little mo if the prudenter had not shadowed their approach from him that still plied it very busily who, 
praying for the intentions of the sovereign pontiff, he gave them for a pledge the vicar of Christ which 
also as he said is vicar of Bray. Now drink we, quod he, of this mazer and quaff ye this mead which is 
not indeed parcel of my body but my soul's bodiment. Leave ye fraction of bread to them that live by 
bread alone. Be not afeard neither for any want for this will comfort more than the other will dismay. 
See ye here. And he showed them glistering coins of the tribute and goldsmith notes the worth of two 
pound nineteen shilling that he had, he said, for a song which he writ. They all admired to see the 
foresaid riches in such dearth of money as was herebefore. His words were then these as followeth: 
Know all men, he said, time's ruins build eternity's mansions. What means this? Desire's wind blasts 
the thorntree but after it becomes from a bramblebush to be a rose upon the rood of time. Mark me 
now. In woman's womb word is made flesh but in the spirit of the maker all flesh that passes becomes 
the word that shall not pass away. This is the postcreation Omnis caro ad te veniet. No question but 
her name is puissant who aventried the dear corse of our Agenbuyer, Healer and Herd, our mighty 
mother and mother most venerable and Bernardus saith aptly that She hath an omnipotentiam 
deiparae supplicem, that is to wit, an almightiness of petition because she is the second Eve and she 
won us, saith Augustine too, whereas that other, our grandam, which we are linked up with by 
successive anastomosis of navelcords sold us all, seed, breed and generation, for a penny pippin. But 
here is the matter now. Or she knew him, that second I say, and was but creature of her creature, 
vergine madre, figlia di tuo figlio, or she knew him not and then stands she in the one denial or 
ignorancy with Peter Piscator who lives in the house that Jack built and with Joseph the joiner patron 
of the happy demise of all unhappy marriages, parceque M. Leo Taxil nous a dit que qui I'avait 
mise dans cette fichue position c'etait le sacre pigeon, ventre de Dieul Entweder transubstantiality 
ODER consubstantklity but in no case subsubstantiality. And all cried out upon it for a very scurvy 
word. A pregnancy without joy, he said, a birth without pangs, a body without blemish, a belly without 
bigness. Let the lewd with faith and fervour worship. With will will we withstand, withsay. 

Hereupon Punch Costello dinged with his fist upon the board and would sing a bawdy catch 
Staboo Stabella about a wench that was put in pod of a jolly swashbuckler in Almany which he did 
straightways now attack: The first three months she was not well, Staboo, when here nurse Quigley 
from the door angerry bid them hist ye should shame you nor was it not meet as she remembered them 
being her mind was to have all orderly against lord Andrew came for because she was jealous that no 
gasteful turmoil might shorten the honour of her guard. It was an ancient and a sad matron of a sedate 
look and christian walking, in habit dun beseeming her megrims and wrinkled visage, nor did her 
hortative want of it effect for incontinently Punch Costello was of them all embraided and they 
reclaimed the churl with civil rudeness some and shaked him with menace of blandishments others 
whiles they all chode with him, a murrain seize the dolt, what a devil he would be at, thou chuff, thou 
puny, thou got in peasestraw, thou losel, thou chitterling, thou spawn of a rebel, thou dykedropt, thou 
abortion thou, to shut up his drunken drool out of that like a curse of God ape, the good sir Leopold 
that had for his cognisance the flower of quiet, margerain gentle, advising also the time's occasion as 
most sacred and most worthy to be most sacred. In Home's house rest should reign. 

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To be short this passage was scarce by when Master Dixon of Mary in Eccles, goodly grinning, 
asked young Stephen what was the reason why he had not cided to take friar's vows and he answered 
him obedience in the womb, chastity in the tomb but involuntary poverty all his days. Master Lenehan 
at this made return that he had heard of those nefarious deeds and how, as he heard hereof counted, 
he had besmirched the lily virtue of a confiding female which was corruption of minors and they all 
intershowed it too, waxing merry and toasting to his fathership. But he said very entirely it was clean 
contrary to their suppose for he was the eternal son and ever virgin. Thereat mirth grew in them the 
more and they rehearsed to him his curious rite of wedlock for the disrobing and deflowering of 
spouses, as the priests use in Madagascar island, she to be in guise of white and saffron, her groom in 
white and grain, with burning of nard and tapers, on a bridebed while clerks sung kyries and the 
anthem Ut novetur sexus omnis corporis mysterium till she was there unmaided. He gave them then 
a much admirable hymen minim by those delicate poets Master John Fletcher and Master Francis 
Beaumont that is in their Maid's Tragedy that was writ for a like twining of lovers: To bed, to bed was 
the burden of it to be played with accompanable concent upon the virginals. An exquisite dulcet 
epithalame of most mollificative suadency for juveniles amatory whom the odoriferous flambeaus of the 
paranymphs have escorted to the quadrupedal proscenium of connubial communion. Well met they 
were, said Master Dixon, joyed, but, harkee, young sir, better were they named Beau Mount and 
Lecher for, by my troth, of such a mingling much might come. Young Stephen said indeed to his best 
remembrance they had but the one doxy between them and she of the stews to make shift with in 
delights amorous for life ran very high in those days and the custom of the country approved with it. 
Greater love than this, he said, no man hath that a man lay down his wife for his friend. Go thou and 
do likewise. Thus, or words to that effect, saith Zarathustra, sometime regius professor of French 
letters to the university of Oxtail nor breathed there ever that man to whom mankind was more 
beholden Bring a stranger within thy tower it will go hard but thou wilt have the secondbest bed. 
Orate, fratres, pro memetipso. And all the people shall say, Amen. Remember, Erin, thy generations 
and thy days of old, how thou settedst little by me and by my word and broughtedst in a stranger to 
my gates to commit fornication in my sight and to wax fat and kick like Jeshurum Therefore hast thou 
sinned against my light and hast made me, thy lord, to be the slave of servants. Return, return, Clan 
Mifry: forget me not, O Milesian Why hast thou done this abomination before me that thou didst spurn 
me for a merchant of jalaps and didst deny me to the Roman and to the Indian of dark speech with 
whom thy daughters did lie luxuriously? Look forth now, my people, upon the land of behest, even 
from Horeb and from Nebo and from Pisgah and from the Horns of Hatten unto a land flowing with 
milk and money. But thou hast suckled me with a bitter milk: my moon and my sun thou hast quenched 
for ever. And thou hast left me alone for ever in the dark ways of my bitterness: and with a kiss of 
ashes hast thou kissed my mouth. This tenebrosity of the interior, he proceeded to say, hath not been 
illumined by the wit of the septuagint nor so much as mentioned for the Orient from on high Which 
brake hell's gates visited a darkness that was foraneous. Assuefaction minorates atrocities (as TuUy 
saith of his darling Stoics) and Hamlet his father showeth the prince no blister of combustion. The 
adiaphane in the noon of life is an Egypt's plague which in the nights of prenativity and postmortemity is 
their most proper ubi and quomodo. And as the ends and ultimates of all things accord in some mean 
and measure with their inceptions and originals, that same multiplicit concordance which leads forth 
growth from birth accomplishing by a retrogressive metamorphosis that minishing and ablation towards 
the final which is agreeable unto nature so is it with our subsolar being. The aged sisters draw us into 
life: we wail, batten, sport, clip, clasp, sunder, dwindle, die: over us dead they bend. First, saved from 
waters of old Nile, among bulrushes, a bed of fasciated wattles: at last the cavity of a mountain, an 
occulted sepulchre amid the conclamation of the hillcat and the ossifrage. And as no man knows the 
ubicity of his tumulus nor to what processes we shall thereby be ushered nor whether to Tophet or to 
Edenville in the like way is all hidden when we would backward see from what region of remoteness 
the whatness of our whoness hath fetched his whenceness. 

Thereto Punch Costello roared out mainly Etienne chanson but he loudly bid them, lo, wisdom 
hath built herself a house, this vast majestic longstablished vault, the crystal palace of the Creator, all in 

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applepie order, a penny for him who finds the pea. 

Behold the mansion reared by dedalJack 
See the malt stored in many a refluent sack, 
In the proud cirque ofJackjohn 's bivouac. 

A black crack of noise in the street here, alack, bawled back. Loud on left Thor thundered: in anger 
awftil the hammerhurler. Came now the storm that hist his heart. And Master Lynch bade him have a 
care to flout and witwanton as the god self was angered for his hellprate and paganry. And he that had 
erst challenged to be so doughty waxed wan as they might all mark and shrank together and his pitch 
that was before so haught uplift was now of a sudden quite plucked down and his heart shook within 
the cage of his breast as he tasted the rumour of that storm Then did some mock and some jeer and 
Punch Costello fell hard again to his yale which Master Lenehan vowed he would do after and he was 
indeed but a word and a blow on any the least colour. But the braggart boaster cried that an old 
Nobodaddy was in his cups it was muchwhat indifferent and he would not lag behind his lead. But this 
was only to dye his desperation as cowed he crouched in Home's hall He drank indeed at one 
draught to pluck up a heart of any grace for it thundered long rumblingfy over all the heavens so that 
Master Madden, being godly certain whiles, knocked him on his ribs upon that crack of doom and 
Master Bloom, at the braggart's side, spoke to him calming words to slumber his great fear, 
advertising how it was no other thing but a hubbub noise that he heard, the discharge of fluid from the 
thunderhead, look you, having taken place, and all of the order of a natural phenomenon. 

But was young Boasthard's fear vanquished by Cahner's words? No, for he had in his bosom a 
spike named Bitterness which could not by words be done away. And was he then neither calm like 
the one nor godly like the other? He was neither as much as he would have liked to be either. But 
could he not have endeavoured to have found again as in his youth the bottle Holiness that then he 
lived withal? Indeed no for Grace was not there to find that bottle. Heard he then in that clap the voice 
of the god Bringforth or, what Calmer said, a hubbub of Phenomenon? Heard? Why, he could not but 
hear unless he had plugged him up the tube Understanding (which he had not done). For through that 
tube he saw that he was in the land of Phenomenon where he must for a certain one day die as he was 
like the rest too a passing show. And would he not accept to die like the rest and pass away? By no 
means would he though he must nor would he make more shows according as men do with wives 
which Phenomenon has commanded them to do by the book Law. Then wotted he nought of that 
other land which is called Believe-on-Me, that is the land of promise which behoves to the king 
Delightful and shall be for ever where there is no death and no birth neither wiving nor mothering at 
which all shall come as many as believe on it? Yes, Pious had told him of that land and Chaste had 
pointed him to the way but the reason was that in the way he fell in with a certain whore of an 
eyepleasing exterior whose name, she said, is Bird-in-the-Hand and she beguiled him wrongways from 
the true path by her flatteries that she said to him as, Ho, you pretty man, turn aside hither and I will 
show you a brave place, and she lay at him so flatteringly that she had him in her grot which is named 
Two-in-the-Bush or, by some learned, Carnal Concupiscence. 

This was it what all that company that sat there at commons in Manse of Mothers the most lusted 
after and if they met with this whore Bird-in-the-Hand (which was within all foul plagues, monsters and 
a wicked devil) they would strain the last but they would make at her and know her. For regarding 
Believe-on-Me they said it was nought else but notion and they could conceive no thought of it for, 
first, Two-in-the-Bush whither she ticed them was the very goodliest grot and in it were four pillows 
on which were four tickets with these words printed on them, Pickaback and Topsyturvy and 
Shameface and Cheek by Jowl and, second, for that foul plague Allpox and the monsters they cared 
not for them for Preservative had given them a stout shield of oxengut and, third, that they might take 
no hurt neither from Oflspring that was that wicked devil by virtue of this same shield which was 
named Killchild. So were they all in their blind fancy, Mr Cavil and Mr Sometimes Godly, Mr Ape 

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Swilkle, Mr False Franklin, Mr Dainty Dixon, Young Boasthard and Mr Cautious Calmer. Wherein, 
O wretched company, were ye all deceived for that was the voice of the god that was in a very 
grievous rage that he would presently lift his arm up and spill their souls for their abuses and their 
spillings done by them contrariwise to his word which forth to bring brenningry biddeth 

So Thursday sixteenth June Patk. Dignam laid in clay of an apoplexy and after hard drought, please 
God, rained, a bargeman coming in by water a fifty mile or thereabout with turf saying the seed won't 
sprout, fields athirst, very sadcoloured and stunk mightily, the quags and tofts too. Hard to breathe 
and all the young quicks clean consumed without sprinkle this long while back as no man remembered 
to be without. The rosy buds all gone brown and spread out blobs and on the hills nought but dry flag 
and faggots that would catch at first fire. All the world saying, for aught they knew, the big wind of last 
February a year that did havoc the land so pitifully a small thing beside this barrenness. But by and by, 
as said, this evening after sundown, the wind sitting in the west, biggish swollen clouds to be seen as 
the night increased and the weatherwise poring up at them and some sheet lightnings at first and after, 
past ten of the clock, one great stroke with a long thunder and in a brace of shakes all scamper 
pellmell within door for the smoking shower, the men making shelter for their straws with a clout or 
kerchief, womenfolk skipping off with kirtles catched up soon as the pour came. In Ely place, Baggot 
street, Duke's lawn, thence through Merrion green up to Holies street a swash of water flowing that 
was before bonedry and not one chair or coach or fiacre seen about but no more crack after that first. 
Over against the Rt. Hon. Mr Justice Fitzgibbon's door (that is to sit with Mr Heafy the lawyer upon 
the college lands) Mai. Mulligan a gentleman's gentleman that had but come from Mr Moore's the 
writer's (that was a papish but is now, folk say, a good Williamite) chanced against Alec. Bannon in a 
cut bob (which are now in with dance cloaks of Kendal green) that was new got to town from 
Mullingar with the stage where his coz and Mai M's brother will stay a month yet till Saint Swithin and 
asks what in the earth he does there, he bound home and he to Andrew Home's being stayed for to 
crush a cup of wine, so he said, but would tell him of a skittish heifer, big of her age and beef to the 
heel, and all this while poured with rain and so both together on to Home's. There Leop. Bloom of 
Crawford's journal sitting snug with a covey of wags, likely brangling fellows, Dixon jun., scholar of 
my lady of Mercy's, Via Lynch, a Scots fellow, Will Madden, T. Lenehan, very sad about a racer he 
fancied and Stephen D. Leop. Bloom there for a languor he had but was now better, be having 
dreamed tonight a strange fancy of his dame Mrs Moll with red slippers on in a pair of Turkey trunks 
which is thought by those in ken to be for a change and Mistress Purefoy there, that got in through 
pleading her belly, and now on the stools, poor body, two days past her term, the midwives sore put 
to it and can't deliver, she queasy for a bowl of riceslop that is a shrewd drier up of the insides and her 
breath very heavy more than good and should be a bulfyboy from the knocks, they say, but God give 
her soon issue. 'Tis her ninth chick to live, I hear, and Lady day bit off her last chick's nails that was 
then a twelvemonth and with other three all breastfed that died written out in a fair hand in the king's 
bible. Her hub fifty odd and a methodist but takes the sacrament and is to be seen any fair sabbath 
with a pair of his boys off Bullock harbour dapping on the sound with a heavybraked reel or in a punt 
he has trailing for flounder and pollock and catches a fine bag, I hear. In sum an infinite great fall of 
rain and all refreshed and will much increase the harvest yet those in ken say after wind and water fire 
shall come for a prognostication of Malachi's almanac (and I hear that Mr Russell has done a 
prophetical charm of the same gist out of the Hindustanish for his farmer's gazette) to have three things 
in all but this a mere fetch without bottom of reason for old crones and bairns yet sometimes they are 
found in the right guess with their queerities no telling how. 

With this came up Lenehan to the feet of the table to say how the letter was in that night's gazette 
and he made a show to find it about him (for he swore with an oath that he had been at pains about it) 
but on Stephen's persuasion he gave over the search and was bidden to sit near by which he did 
mighty brisk. He was a kind of sport gentleman that went for a merryandrew or honest pickle and 
what belonged of women, horseflesh or hot scandal he had it pat. To tell the truth he was mean in 
fortunes and for the most part hankered about the coffeehouses and low taverns with crimps, ostlers, 

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bookies, Paul's men, runners, flatcaps, waistcoateers, ladies of the bagnio and other rogues of the 
game or with a chanceable catchpole or a tipstaff often at nights till broad day of whom he picked up 
between his sackpossets much loose gossip. He took his ordinary at a boilingcooks and if he had but 
gotten into him a mess of broken victuals or a platter of tripes with a bare tester in his purse he could 
always bring himself off with his tongue, some randy quip he had from a punk or whatnot that every 
mother's son of them would burst their sides. The other, Costello that is, hearing this talk asked was it 
poetry or a tale. Faith, no, he says, Frank (that was his name), 'tis all about Kerry cows that are to be 
butchered along of the plague. But they can go hang, says he with a wink, for me with their bully beef, 
a pox on it. There's as good fish in this tin as ever came out of it and very friendly he offered to take of 
some salty sprats that stood by which he had eyed wishfy in the meantime and found the place which 
was indeed the chief design of his embassy as he was sharpset. Mort aux v aches, says Frank then in 
the French language that had been indentured to a brandyshipper that has a winelodge in Bordeaux 
and he spoke French like a gentleman too. From a child this Frank had been a donought that his 
father, a headborough, who could ill keep him to school to learn his letters and the use of the globes, 
matriculated at the university to study the mechanics but he took the bit between his teeth like a raw 
colt and was more familiar with the justiciary and the parish beadle than with his volumes. One time he 
would be a playactor, then a sutler or a welsher, then nought would keep him from the bearpit and the 
cocking main, then he was for the ocean sea or to hoof it on the roads with the romany folk, 
kidnapping a squire's heir by favour of moonlight or fecking maids' linen or choking chicken behind a 
hedge. He had been off as many times as a cat has lives and back again with naked pockets as many 
more to his father the headborough who shed a pint of tears as often as he saw him What, says Mr 
Leopold with his hands across, that was earnest to know the drift of it, will they slaughter all? I protest 
I saw them but this day morning going to the Liverpool boats, says he. I can scarce believe 'tis so bad, 
says he. And he had experience of the like brood beasts and of springers, greasy hoggets and wether 
wool, having been some years before actuary for Mr Joseph Cuffe, a worthy salesmaster that drove 
his trade for live stock and meadow auctions hard by Mr Gavin Low's yard in Prussia street. I 
question with you there, says he. More like 'tis the hoose or the timber tongue. Mr Stephen, a little 
moved but very handsomely told him no such matter and that he had dispatches from the emperor's 
chief taiMckler thanking him for the hospitality, that was sending over Doctor Rinderpest, the 
bestquoted cowcatcher in all Muscovy, with a bolus or two of physic to take the bull by the horns. 
Come, come, says Mr Vincent, plain dealing. He'll find himself on the horns of a dilemma if he 
meddles with a bull that's Irish, says he. Irish by name and irish by nature, says Mr Stephen, and he 
sent the ale purling about, an Irish bull in an English chinashop. I conceive you, says Mr Dixon. It is 
that same bull that was sent to our island by farmer Nicholas, the bravest cattlebreeder of them all, 
with an emerald ring in his nose. True for you, says Mr Vincent cross the table, and a bullseye into the 
bargain, says he, and a plumper and a portlier bull, says he, never shit on shamrock. He had horns 
galore, a coat of cloth of gold and a sweet smoky breath coming out of his nostrils so that the women 
of our island, leaving doughballs and rollingpins, followed after him hanging his bulliness in daisychains. 
What for that, says Mr Dixon, but before he came over farmer Nicholas that was a eunuch had him 
properly gelded by a college of doctors who were no better off than himself So be off now, says he, 
and do all my cousin german the lord Harry tells you and take a farmer's blessing, and with that he 
slapped his posteriors very soundly. But the slap and the blessing stood him friend, says Mr Vincent, 
for to make up he taught him a trick worth two of the other so that maid, wife, abbess and widow to 
this day affirm that they would rather any time of the month whisper in his ear in the dark of a 
cowhouse or get a lick on the nape from his long holy tongue than lie with the finest strapping young 
ravisher in the four fields of all Ireland. Another then put in his word: And they dressed him, says he, in 
a point shift and petticoat with a tippet and girdle and ruffles on his wrists and clipped his forelock and 
rubbed him all over with spermacetic oil and built stables for him at every turn of the road with a gold 
manger in each full of the best hay in the market so that he could doss and dung to his heart's content. 
By this time the father of the faithful (for so they called him) was grown so heavy that he could scarce 
walk to pasture. To remedy which our cozening dames and damsels brought him his fodder in their 

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apronkps and as soon as his belly was full he would rear up on his hind uarters to show their ladyships 
a mystery and roar and bellow out of him in bulls' language and they all after him Ay, says another, 
and so pampered was he that he would suffer nought to grow in all the land but green grass for himself 
(for that was the only colour to his mind) and there was a board put up on a hillock in the middle of 
the island with a printed notice, saying: By the Lord Harry, Green is the grass that grows on the 
ground. And, says Mr Dixon, if ever he got scent of a cattleraider in Roscommon or the wilds of 
Connemara or a husbandman in Sligo that was sowing as much as a handful of mustard or a bag of 
rapeseed out he'd run amok over half the countryside rooting up with his horns whatever was planted 
and all by lord Harry's orders. There was bad blood between them at first, says Mr Vincent, and the 
lord Harry called farmer Nicholas all the old Nicks in the world and an old whoremaster that kept 
seven trulls in his house and I'll meddle in his matters, says he. I'll make that animal smell hell, says he, 
with the help of that good pizzle my father left me. But one evening, says Mr Dixon, when the lord 
Harry was cleaning his royal pelt to go to dinner after winning a boatrace (he had spade oars for 
himself but the first rule of the course was that the others were to row with pitchforks) he discovered 
in himself a wonderful likeness to a bull and on picking up a blackthumbed chapbook that he kept in 
the pantry he found sure enough that he was a lefthanded descendant of the famous champion bull of 
the Romans, Bos Bovum, which is good bog Latin for boss of the show. After that, says Mr Vincent, 
the lord Harry put his head into a cow's drinkingtrough in the presence of all his courtiers and pulling it 
out again told them all his new name. Then, with the water running off him, he got into an old smock 
and skirt that had belonged to his grandmother and bought a grammar of the bulls' language to study 
but he could never learn a word of it except the first personal pronoun which he copied out big and 
got off by heart and if ever he went out for a walk he filled his pockets with chalk to write it upon what 
took his fancy, the side of a rock or a teahouse table or a bale of cotton or a corkfloat. In short, he 
and the bull of Ireland were soon as fast friends as an arse and a shirt. They were, says Mr Stephen, 
and the end was that the men of the island seeing no help was toward, as the ungrate women were all 
of one mind, made a wherry raft, loaded themselves and their bundles of chattels on shipboard, set all 
masts erect, manned the yards, sprang their luff, heaved to, spread three sheets in the wind, put her 
head between wind and water, weighed anchor, ported her helm, ran up the jolly Roger, gave three 
times three, let the bullgine run, pushed off in their bumboat and put to sea to recover the main of 
America. Which was the occasion, says Mr Vincent, of the composing by a boatswain of that 
rollicking chanty: 

— Pope Peter's but a pissabed. 
A man's a man for a' that. 

Our worthy acquaintance Mr Malachi Mulligan now appeared in the doorway as the students were 
finishing their apologue accompanied with a friend whom he had just rencountered, a young gentleman, 
his name Alec Bannon, who had late come to town, it being his intention to buy a colour or a cornetcy 
in the fencibles and list for the wars. Mr Mulgan was civil enough to express some relish of it all the 
more as it jumped with a project of his own for the cure of the very evil that had been touched on. 
Whereat he handed round to the company a set of pasteboard cards which he had had printed that 
day at Mr Quinnell's bearing a legend printed in fair italics: Mr Malachi Mulligan. Fertiliser and 
Incubator. Lambay Island. His project, as he went on to expound, was to withdraw from the round 
of idle pleasures such as form the chief business of sir Fopling Popinjay and sir Milksop Quidnunc in 
town and to devote himself to the noblest task for which our bodily organism has been framed. Well, 
let us hear of it, good my friend, said Mr Dixon. I make no doubt it smacks of wenching. Come, be 
seated, both. 'Tis as cheap sitting as standing. Mr Mulligan accepted of the invitation and, expatiating 
upon his design, told his hearers that he had been led into this thought by a consideration of the causes 
of sterility, both the inhibitory and the prohibitory, whether the inhibition in its rum were due to 
conjugal vexations or to a parsimony of the balance as well as whether the prohibition proceeded from 
defects congenital or from proclivities acquired. It grieved him plaguiry, he said, to see the nuptial 
couch defrauded of its dearest pledges: and to reflect upon so many agreeable females with rich 

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jointures, a prey to the vilest bonzes, who hide their flambeau under a bushel in an uncongenial cloister 
or lose their womanly bloom in the embraces of some unaccountable muskin when they might multiply 
the inlets of happiness, sacrificing the inestimable jewel of their sex when a hundred pretty fellows 
were at hand to caress, this, he assured them, made his heart weep. To curb this inconvenient (which 
he concluded due to a suppression of latent heat), having advised with certain counsellors of worth 
and inspected into this matter, he had resolved to purchase in fee simple for ever the freehold of 
Lambay island from its holder, lord Talbot de Malahide, a Tory gentleman of note much in favour with 
our ascendancy party. He proposed to set up there a national fertilising farm to be named Omphalos 
with an obelisk hewn and erected after the fashion of Egypt and to offer his dutiful yeoman services for 
the fecundation of any female of what grade of life soever who should there direct to him with the 
desire of fulfilling the functions of her natural. Money was no object, he said, nor would he take a 
penny for his pains. The poorest kitchenwench no less than the opulent lady of fashion, if so be their 
constructions and their tempers were warm persuaders for their petitions, would find in him their man. 
For his nutriment he shewed how he would feed himself exclusively upon a diet of savoury tubercles 
and fish and coneys there, the flesh of these latter prolific rodents being highly recommended for his 
purpose, both broiled and stewed with a blade of mace and a pod or two of capsicum chillies. After 
this homily which he delivered with much warmth of asseveration Mr Mulligan in a trice put off from 
his hat a kerchief with which he had shielded it. They both it seems, had been overtaken by the rain 
and for all their mending their pace had taken water, as might be observed by Mr Mulligan's 
smallclothes of a hodden grey which was now somewhat piebald. His project meanwhile was very 
favourably entertained by his auditors and won hearty eulogies from all though Mr Dixon of Mary's 
excepted to it, asking with a finicking air did he purpose also to carry coals to Newcastle. Mr Mulligan 
however made court to the scholarly by an apt quotation from the classics which, as it dwelt upon his 
memory, seemed to him a sound and tasteful support of his contention: Talis ac tanta depravatio 
hujus seculi, O quirites, ut matresfamiliarum nostrae lascivas cujuslibet semiviri libici 
titillationes testibus ponderosis atque excelsis erectionibus centurionum Romanorum 
magnopere anteponunt, while for those of ruder wit he drove home his point by analogies of the 
animal kingdom more suitable to their stomach the buck and doe of the forest glade, the farmyard 
drake and duck. 

Valuing himself not a little upon his elegance, being indeed a proper man of person, this talkative 
now applied himself to his dress with animadversions of some heat upon the sudden whimsy of the 
atmospherics while the company lavished their encomiums upon the project he had advanced. The 
young gentleman, his friend, overjoyed as he was at a passage that had late befallen him, could not 
forbear to tell it his nearest neighbour. Mr Mulligan, now perceiving the table, asked for whom were 
those loaves and fishes and, seeing the stranger, he made him a civil bow and said, Pray, sir, was you 
in need of any professional assistance we could give? Who, upon his offer, thanked him very heartily, 
though preserving his proper distance, and replied that he was come there about a lady, now an 
inmate of Home's house, that was in an interesting condition, poor body, from woman's woe (and here 
he fetched a deep sigh) to know if her happiness had yet taken place. Mr Dixon, to rum the table, 
took on to ask of Mr Mulgan himself whether his incipient ventripotence, upon which he rallied him, 
betokened an ovoblastic gestation in the prostatic utricle or male womb or was due, as with the noted 
physician, Mr Austin Meldon, to a wolf in the stomach. For answer Mr Mulgan, in a gale of laughter 
at his smalls, smote himself bravely below the diaphragm, exclaiming with an admirable droll mimic of 
Mother Grogan (the most excellent creature of her sex though 'tis pity she's a trollop): There's a belly 
that never bore a bastard. This was so happy a conceit that it renewed the storm of mirth and threw 
the whole room into the most violent agitations of delight. The spry rattle had run on in the same vein 
of mimicry but for some larum in the antechamber. 

Here the listener who was none other than the Scotch student, a little fume of a fellow, blond as 
tow, congratulated in the liveliest fashion with the young gentleman and, interrupting the narrative at a 
salient point, having desired his visavis with a polite beck to have the obligingness to pass him a flagon 

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of cordial waters at the same time by a questioning poise of the head (a whole century of polite 
breeding had not achieved so nice a gesture) to which was united an equivalent but contrary balance 
of the bottle asked the narrator as plainly as was ever done in words if he might treat him with a cup of 
it. Mais bien sur, noble stranger, said he cheerily, et mille compliments. That you may and very 
opportunely. There wanted nothing but this cup to crown my felicity. But, gracious heaven, was I left 
with but a crust in my wallet and a cupful of water from the well, my God, I would accept of them and 
find it in my heart to kneel down upon the ground and give thanks to the powers above for the 
happiness vouchsafed me by the Giver of good things. With these words he approached the goblet to 
his lips, took a complacent draught of the cordial, slicked his hair and, opening his bosom, out popped 
a locket that hung from a silk riband, that very picture which he had cherished ever since her hand had 
wrote therein. Gazing upon those features with a world of tenderness, Ah, Monsieur, he said, had you 
but beheld her as I did with these eyes at that affecting instant with her dainty tucker and her new 
coquette cap (a gift for her feastday as she told me prettify) in such an artless disorder, of so melting a 
tenderness, 'pon my conscience, even you, Monsieur, had been impelled by generous nature to deliver 
yourself wholly into the hands of such an enemy or to quit the field for ever. I declare, I was never so 
touched in all my life. God, I thank thee, as the Author of my days! Thrice happy will he be whom so 
amiable a creature will bless with her favours. A sigh of affection gave eloquence to these words and, 
having replaced the locket in his bosom, he wiped his eye and sighed again. Beneficent Disseminator 
of blessings to all Thy creatures, how great and universal must be that sweetest of Thy tyrannies which 
can hold in thrall the free and the bond, the simple swain and the polished coxcomb, the lover in the 
heyday of reckless passion and the husband of maturer years. But indeed, sir, I wander from the point. 
How mingled and imperfect are all our sublunary joys. Maledicity! he exclaimed in anguish Would to 
God that foresight had but remembered me to take my cloak along! I could weep to think of it. Then, 
though it had poured seven showers, we were neither of us a penny the worse. But beshrew me, he 
cried, clapping hand to his forehead, tomorrow will be a new day and, thousand thunders, I know of a 
marchand de capotes, Monsieur Poyntz, from whom I can have for a livre as snug a cloak of the 
French fashion as ever kept a lady from wetting. Tut, tut! cries Le Fecondateur, tripping in, my friend 
Monsieur Moore, that most accomplished traveller (I have just cracked a half bottle AVEC LUI in a 
circle of the best wits of the town), is my authority that in Cape Horn, ventre biche, they have a rain 
that will wet through any, even the stoutest cloak. A drenching of that violence, he tells me, sans 
blague, has sent more than one luckless fellow in good earnest posthaste to another world. Pooh! A 
livre! cries Monsieur Lynch. The clumsy things are dear at a sou. One umbrella, were it no bigger than 
a fairy mushroom, is worth ten such stopgaps. No woman of any wit would wear one. My dear Kitty 
told me today that she would dance in a deluge before ever she would starve in such an ark of 
salvation for, as she reminded me (blushing piquantry and whispering in my ear though there was none 
to snap her words but giddy butterflies), dame Nature, by the divine blessing, has implanted it in our 
hearts and it has become a household word that il y a deux choses for which the innocence of our 
original garb, in other circumstances a breach of the proprieties, is the fittest, nay, the only garment. 
The first, said she (and here my pretty philosopher, as I handed her to her tilbury, to fix my attention, 
gently tipped with her tongue the outer chamber of my ear), the first is a bath... But at this point a bell 
tinkling in the hall cut short a discourse which promised so bravely for the enrichment of our store of 
knowledge. 

Amid the general vacant hilarity of the assembly a bell rang and, while all were conjecturing what 
might be the cause, Miss Callan entered and, having spoken a few words in a low tone to young Mr 
Dixon, retired with a profound bow to the company. The presence even for a moment among a party 
of debauchees of a woman endued with every quality of modesty and not less severe than beautiful 
refrained the humourous sallies even of the most licentious but her departure was the signal for an 
outbreak of ribaldry. Strike me silly, said Costello, a low fellow who was fuddled. A monstrous fine 
bit of cowflesh! I'll be sworn she has rendezvoused you. What, you dog? Have you a way with them? 
Gad's bud, immensely so, said Mr Lynch. The bedside manner it is that they use in the Mater hospice. 
Demme, does not Doctor O'Gargle chuck the nuns there under the chin. As I look to be saved I had it 

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from my Kitty who has been wardmaid there any time these seven months. Lawksamercy, doctor, 
cried the young blood in the primrose vest, feigning a womanish simper and with immodest squirmings 
of his body, how you do tease a body! Drat the man! Bless me, I'm all of a wibbfy wobbly. Why, 
you're as bad as dear little Father Cantekissem, that you are! May this pot of four half choke me, 
cried Costello, if she aint in the family way. I knows a lady what's got a white swelling quick as I claps 
eyes on her. The young surgeon, however, rose and begged the company to excuse his retreat as the 
nurse had just then informed him that he was needed in the ward. Merciful providence had been 
pleased to put a period to the sufferings of the lady who was enceinte which she had borne with a 
laudable fortitude and she had given birth to a bouncing boy. I want patience, said he, with those who, 
without wit to enliven or learning to instruct, revile an ennobling profession which, saving the reverence 
due to the Deity, is the greatest power for happiness upon the earth. I am positive when I say that if 
need were I could produce a cloud of witnesses to the excellence of her noble exercitations which so 
far from being a byword, should be a glorious incentive in the human breast. I cannot away with them 
What? Malign such an one, the amiable Miss Callan, who is the lustre of her own sex and the 
astonishment of ours? And at an instant the most momentous that can befall a puny child of clay? 
Perish the thought! I shudder to think of the future of a race where the seeds of such malice have been 
sown and where no right reverence is rendered to mother and maid in house of Home. Having 
delivered himself of this rebuke he saluted those present on the by and repaired to the door. A murmur 
of approval arose from all and some were for ejecting the low soaker without more ado, a design 
which would have been effected nor would he have received more than his bare deserts had he not 
abridged his transgression by affirming with a horrid imprecation (for he swore a round hand) that he 
was as good a son of the true fold as ever drew breath Stap my vitals, said he, them was always the 
sentiments of honest Frank Costello which I was bred up most particular to honour thy father and thy 
mother that had the best hand to a rofypory or a hasty pudding as you ever see what I always looks 
back on with a loving heart. 

To revert to Mr Bloom who, after his first entry, had been conscious of some impudent mocks 
which he however had borne with as being the fruits of that age upon which it is commonly charged 
that it knows not pity. The young sparks, it is true, were as full of extravagancies as overgrown 
children: the words of their tumultuary discussions were difficultly understood and not often nice: their 
testiness and outrageous mots were such that his intellects resiled from: nor were they scrupulously 
sensible of the proprieties though their fund of strong animal spirits spoke in their behalf But the word 
of Mr Costello was an unwelcome language for him for he nauseated the wretch that seemed to him a 
cropeared creature of a misshapen gibbosity, bom out of wedlock and thrust like a crookback 
toothed and feet first into the world, which the dint of the surgeon's pliers in his skull lent indeed a 
colour to, so as to put him in thought of that missing link of creation's chain desiderated by the late 
ingenious Mr Darwin. It was now for more than the middle span of our allotted years that he had 
passed through the thousand vicissitudes of existence and, being of a wary ascendancy and self a man 
of rare forecast, he had enjoined his heart to repress all motions of a rising choler and, by intercepting 
them with the readiest precaution, foster within his breast that plenitude of sufferance which base 
minds jeer at, rash judgers scorn and all find tolerable and but tolerable. To those who create 
themselves wits at the cost of feminine delicacy (a habit of mind which he never did hold with) to them 
he would concede neither to bear the name nor to herit the tradition of a proper breeding: while for 
such that, having lost all forbearance, can lose no more, there remained the sharp antidote of 
experience to cause their insolency to beat a precipitate and inglorious retreat. Not but what he could 
feel with mettlesome youth which, caring nought for the mows of dotards or the gruntlings of the 
severe, is ever (as the chaste fancy of the Holy Writer expresses it) for eating of the tree forbid it yet 
not so far forth as to pretermit humanity upon any condition soever towards a gentlewoman when she 
was about her lawful occasions. To conclude, while from the sister's words he had reckoned upon a 
speedy delivery he was, however, it must be owned, not a little alleviated by the intelligence that the 
issue so auspicated after an ordeal of such duress now testified once more to the mercy as well as to 
the bounty of the Supreme Being. 

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Accordingly he broke his mind to his neighbour, saying that, to express his notion of the thing, his 
opinion (who ought not perchance to express one) was that one must have a cold constitution and a 
frigid genius not to be rejoiced by this freshest news of the fruition of her confinement since she had 
been in such pain through no fault of hers. The dressy young blade said it was her husband's that put 
her in that expectation or at least it ought to be unless she were another Ephesian matron I must 
acquaint you, said Mr Crotthers, clapping on the table so as to evoke a resonant comment of 
emphasis, old Glory Allelujurum was round again today, an elderly man with dundrearies, preferring 
through his nose a request to have word of Wilhelmina, my life, as he calls her. I bade him hold himself 
in readiness for that the event would burst anon. 'Slife, I'll be round with you I cannot but extol the 
virile potency of the old bucko that could still knock another child out of her. All fell to praising of it, 
each after his own fashion, though the same young blade held with his former view that another than 
her conjugial had been the man in the gap, a clerk in orders, a linkboy (virtuous) or an itinerant vendor 
of articles needed in every household. Singular, communed the guest with himself, the wonderfully 
unequal faculty of metempsychosis possessed by them, that the puerperal dormitory and the dissecting 
theatre should be the seminaries of such frivolity, that the mere acquisition of academic titles should 
suffice to transform in a pinch of time these votaries of levity into exemplary practitioners of an art 
which most men anywise eminent have esteemed the noblest. But, he further added, it is mayhap to 
relieve the pentup feelings that in common oppress them for I have more than once observed that birds 
of a feather laugh together. 

But with what fitness, let it be asked of the noble lord, his patron, has this alien, whom the 
concession of a gracious prince has admitted to civic rights, constituted himself the lord paramount of 
our internal polity? Where is now that gratitude which loyalty should have counselled? During the 
recent war whenever the enemy had a temporary advantage with his granados did this traitor to his 
kind not seize that moment to discharge his piece against the empire of which he is a tenant at will 
while he trembled for the security of his four per cents? Has he forgotten this as he forgets all benefits 
received? Or is it that from being a dehider of others he has become at last his own dupe as he is, if 
report belie him not, his own and his only enjoyer? Far be it from candour to violate the bedchamber 
of a respectable lady, the daughter of a gallant major, or to cast the most distant reflections upon her 
virtue but if he challenges attention there (as it was indeed highly his interest not to have done) then be 
it so. Unhappy woman, she has been too long and too persistently denied her legitimate prerogative to 
listen to his objurgations with any other feeling than the derision of the desperate. He says this, a 
censor of morals, a very pelican in his piety, who did not scruple, oblivious of the ties of nature, to 
attempt illicit intercourse with a female domestic drawn from the lowest strata of society! Nay, had the 
hussy's scouringbrush not been her tutelary angel, it had gone with her as hard as with Hagar, the 
Egyptian! In the question of the grazing lands his peevish asperity is notorious and in Mr Cuffe's 
hearing brought upon him from an indignant rancher a scathing retort couched in terms as 
straightforward as they were bucolic. It ill becomes him to preach that gospeL Has he not nearer home 
a seedfield that lies fallow for the want of the ploughshare? A habit reprehensible at puberty is second 
nature and an opprobrium in middle life. If he must dispense his balm of Gilead in nostrums and 
apothegms of dubious taste to restore to health a generation of unfledged profligates let his practice 
consist better with the doctrines that now engross him. His marital breast is the repository of secrets 
which decorum is reluctant to adduce. The lewd suggestions of some faded beauty may console him 
for a consort neglected and debauched but this new exponent of morals and healer of ills is at his best 
an exotic tree which, when rooted in its native orient, throve and flourished and was abundant in balm 
but, transplanted to a clime more temperate, its roots have lost their quondam vigour while the stuff 
that comes away from it is stagnant, acid and inoperative. 

The news was imparted with a circumspection recalling the ceremonial usage of the Sublime Porte 
by the second female infirmarian to the junior medical officer in residence, who in his turn announced 
to the delegation that an heir had been born, When he had betaken himself to the women's apartment 
to assist at the prescribed ceremony of the afterbirth in the presence of the secretary of state for 

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domestic affairs and the members of the privy council, silent in unanimous exhaustion and approbation 
the delegates, chafing under the length and solemnity of their vigil and hoping that the joyful occurrence 
would palliate a licence which the simultaneous absence of abigail and obstetrician rendered the easier, 
broke out at once into a strife of tongues. In vain the voice of Mr Canvasser Bloom was heard 
endeavouring to urge, to mollify, to refrain The moment was too propitious for the display of that 
discursiveness which seemed the only bond of union among tempers so divergent. Every phase of the 
situation was successively eviscerated: the prenatal repugnance of uterine brothers, the Caesarean 
section, posthumity with respect to the father and, that rarer form, with respect to the mother, the 
fratricidal case known as the Childs Murder and rendered memorable by the impassioned plea of Mr 
Advocate Bushe which secured the acquittal of the wrongfully accused, the rights of primogeniture and 
king's bounty touching twins and triplets, miscarriages and infanticides, simulated or dissimulated, the 
acardiac foetus infoetu and aprosopia due to a congestion, the agnathia of certain chinless Chinamen 
(cited by Mr Candidate Mulligan) in consequence of defective reunion of the maxillary knobs along the 
medial line so that (as he said) one ear could hear what the other spoke, the benefits of anesthesia or 
twilight sleep, the prolongation of labour pains in advanced gravidancy by reason of pressure on the 
vein, the premature relentment of the amniotic fluid (as exemplified in the actual case) with consequent 
peril of sepsis to the matrix, artificial insemination by means of syringes, involution of the womb 
consequent upon the menopause, the problem of the perpetration of the species in the case of females 
impregnated by delinquent rape, that distressing manner of delivery called by the Brandenburghers 
Sturzgeburt, the recorded instances of multiseminal, twikindled and monstrous births conceived 
during the catamenic period or of consanguineous parents — in a word all the cases of human nativity 
which Aristotle has classified in his masterpiece with chromolithographic illustrations. The gravest 
problems of obstetrics and forensic medicine were examined with as much animation as the most 
popular beliefs on the state of pregnancy such as the forbidding to a gravid woman to step over a 
countrystile lest, by her movement, the navelcord should strangle her creature and the injunction upon 
her in the event of a yearning, ardently and ineffectually entertained, to place her hand against that part 
of her person which long usage has consecrated as the seat of castigation The abnormalities of 
harelip, breastmole, supernumerary digits, negro's inkle, strawberry mark and portwine stain were 
alleged by one as a prima facie and natural hypothetical explanation of those swineheaded (the case 
of Madame Grissel Steevens was not forgotten) or doghaired infants occasionally born. The 
hypothesis of a plasmic memory, advanced by the Caledonian envoy and worthy of the metaphysical 
traditions of the land he stood for, envisaged in such cases an arrest of embryonic development at 
some stage antecedent to the human. An outlandish delegate sustained against both these views, with 
such heat as almost carried conviction, the theory of copulation between women and the males of 
brutes, his authority being his own avouchment in support of fables such as that of the Minotaur which 
the genius of the elegant Latin poet has handed down to us in the pages of his Metamorphoses. The 
impression made by his words was immediate but shortlived. It was effaced as easily as it had been 
evoked by an allocution from Mr Candidate Mulligan in that vein of pleasantry which none better than 
he knew how to affect, postulating as the supremest object of desire a nice clean old man. 
Contemporaneously, a heated argument having arisen between Mr Delegate Madden and Mr 
Candidate Lynch regarding the juridical and theological dilemma created in the event of one Siamese 
twin predeceasing the other, the difficulty by mutual consent was referred to Mr Canvasser Bloom for 
instant submittal to Mr Coadjutor Deacon Dedalus. Hitherto silent, whether the better to show by 
preternatural gravity that curious dignity of the garb with which he was invested or in obedience to an 
inward voice, he delivered briefly and, as some thought, perfunctorily the ecclesiastical ordinance 
forbidding man to put asunder what God has joined. 

But Malachias' tale began to freeze them with horror. He conjured up the scene before them The 
secret panel beside the chimney slid back and in the recess appeared... Haines! Which of us did not 
feel his flesh creep! He had a portfolio full of Celtic literature in one hand, in the other a phial marked 
Poison. Surprise, horror, loathing were depicted on all faces while he eyed them with a ghostly grin. I 
anticipated some such reception, he began with an eldritch laugh for which, it seems, history is to 

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blame. Yes, it is true. I am the murderer of Samuel Childs. And how I am punished! The inferno has 
no terrors for me. This is the appearance is on me. Tare and ages, what way would I be resting at all, 
he muttered thickly, and I tramping Dublin this while back with my share of songs and himself after me 
the like of a soulth or a bullawurrus? My hell, and Ireland's, is in this life. It is what I tried to obliterate 
my crime. Distractions, rookshooting, the Erse language (he recited some), laudanum (he raised the 
phial to his lips), camping out. In vain! His spectre stalks me. Dope is my only hope... Ah! 
Destruction! The black panther! With a cry he suddenly vanished and the panel slid back. An instant 
later his head appeared in the door opposite and said: Meet me at Westland Row station at ten past 
eleven. He was gone. Tears gushed from the eyes of the dissipated host. The seer raised his hand to 
heaven, murmuring: The vendetta of Mananaun! The sage repeated: Lex talionis. The sentimentalist is 
he who would enjoy without incurring the immense debtorship for a thing done. Malachias, overcome 
by emotion, ceased. The mystery was unveiled. Haines was the third brother. His real name was 
Childs. The black panther was himself the ghost of his own father. He drank drugs to obliterate. For 
this relief much thanks. The lonely house by the graveyard is uninhabited. No soul will live there. The 
spider pitches her web in the solitude. The nocturnal rat peers from his hole. A curse is on it. It is 
haunted. Murderer's ground. 

What is the age of the soul of man? As she hath the virtue of the chameleon to change her hue at 
every new approach to be gay with the merry and mournful with the downcast, so too is her age 
changeable as her mood. No longer is Leopold, as he sits there, ruminating, chewing the cud of 
reminiscence, that staid agent of publicity and holder of a modest substance in the funds. A score of 
years are blown away. He is young Leopold. There, as in a retrospective arrangement, a mirror within 
a mirror (hey, presto!), he beholdeth himself That young figure of then is seen, precociously manly, 
walking on a nipping morning from the old house in Clanbrassil street to the high school, his 
booksatchel on him bandolierwise, and in it a goodly hunk of wheaten loaf, a mother's thought. Or it is 
the same figure, a year or so gone over, in his first hard hat (ah, that was a day!), already on the road, 
a fullfledged traveller for the family firm, equipped with an orderbook, a scented handkerchief (not for 
show only), his case of bright trinketware (alas! a thing now of the past!) and a quiverful of compliant 
smiles for this or that halfwon housewife reckoning it out upon her fingertips or for a budding virgin, 
shyly acknowledging (but the heart? tell me!) his studied baisemoins. The scent, the smile, but, more 
than these, the dark eyes and oleaginous address, brought home at duskfall many a commission to the 
head of the firm, seated with Jacob's pipe after like labours in the paternal ingle (a meal of noodles, 
you may be sure, is aheating), reading through round horned spectacles some paper from the Europe 
of a month before. But hey, presto, the mirror is breathed on and the young knighterrant recedes, 
shrivels, dwindles to a tiny speck within the mist. Now he is himself paternal and these about him might 
be his sons. Who can say? The wise father knows his own child. He thinks of a drizzling night in Hatch 
street, hard by the bonded stores there, the first. Together (she is a poor waif, a child of shame, yours 
and mine and of all for a bare shilling and her Lickpenny), together they hear the heavy tread of the 
watch as two raincaped shadows pass the new royal university. Bridie! Bridie Kelly! He will never 
forget the name, ever remember the night: first night, the bridenight. They are entwined in nethermost 
darkness, the wilier with the willed, and in an instant (fiatl) light shall flood the world. Did heart leap to 
heart? Nay, fair reader. In a breath 'twas done but — hold! Back! It must not be! In terror the poor girl 
flees away through the murk. She is the bride of darkness, a daughter of night. She dare not bear the 
sunnygolden babe of day. No, Leopold. Name and memory solace thee not. That youthful illusion of 
thy strength was taken from thee — and in vain. No son of thy loins is by thee. There is none now to be 
for Leopold, what Leopold was for Rudolph. 

The voices blend and fuse in clouded silence: silence that is the infinite of space: and swiftly, silently 
the soul is wafted over regions of cycles of generations that have lived. A region where grey twilight 
ever descends, never falls on wide sagegreen pasturefields, shedding her dusk, scattering a perennial 
dew of stars. She follows her mother with ungainly steps, a mare leading her filryfoaL Twilight 
phantoms are they, yet moulded in prophetic grace of structure, slim shapely haunches, a supple 

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tendonous neck, the meek apprehensive skull. They fade, sad phantoms: all is gone. Agendath is a 
waste land, a home of screechowls and the sandblind upupa. Netaim, the golden, is no more. And on 
the highway of the clouds they come, muttering thunder of rebellion, the ghosts of beasts. Huuh! Hark! 
Huuh! Parallax stalks behind and goads them, the lancinating lightnings of whose brow are scorpions. 
Elk and yak, the bulls ofBashan and of Babylon, mammoth and mastodon, they come trooping to the 
sunken sea, Lacus Mortis. Ominous revengeful zodiacal host! They moan, passing upon the clouds, 
horned and capricorned, the trumpeted with the tusked, the lionmaned, the giantantlered, snouter and 
crawler, rodent, ruminant and pachyderm, all their moving moaning multitude, murderers of the sun 

Onward to the dead sea they tramp to drink, unslaked and with horrible gulpings, the salt somnolent 
inexhaustible flood. And the equine portent grows again, magnified in the deserted heavens, nay to 
heaven's own magnitude, till it looms, vast, over the house of Virgo. And lo, wonder of 
metempsychosis, it is she, the everlasting bride, harbinger of the daystar, the bride, ever virgin. It is 
she, Martha, thou lost one, Millicent, the young, the dear, the radiant. How serene does she now arise, 
a queen among the Pleiades, in the penultimate ante bean hour, shod in sandals of bright gold, coifed 
with a veil of what do you call it gossamer. It floats, it flows about her starbom flesh and loose it 
streams, emerald, sapphire, mauve and heliotrope, sustained on currents of the cold interstellar wind, 
winding, coiling, simply swirling, writhing in the skies a mysterious writing till, after a myriad 
metamorphoses of symbol, it blazes, Alpha, a ruby and triangled sign upon the forehead of Taurus. 

Francis was reminding Stephen of years before when they had been at school together in Conmee's 
time. He asked about Glaucon, Alcibiades, Pisistratus. Where were they now? Neither knew. You 
have spoken of the past and its phantoms, Stephen said. Why think of them? If I call them into life 
across the waters of Lethe will not the poor ghosts troop to my call? Who supposes it? I, Bous 
Stephanoumenos, bullockbefriending bard, am lord and giver of their life. He encircled his gadding hair 
with a coronal of vineleaves, smiling at Vincent. That answer and those leaves, Vincent said to him, 
will adorn you more fitly when something more, and greatly more, than a capful of light odes can call 
your genius father. All who wish you well hope this for you. All desire to see you bring forth the work 
you meditate, to acclaim you Stephaneforos. I heartily wish you may not fail them O no, Vincent 
Lenehan said, laying a hand on the shoulder near him Have no fear. He could not leave his mother an 
orphan. The young man's face grew dark. All could see how hard it was for him to be reminded of his 
promise and of his recent loss. He would have withdrawn from the feast had not the noise of voices 
allayed the smart. Madden had lost five drachmas on Sceptre for a whim of the rider's name: Lenehan 
as much more. He told them of the race. The flag fell and, huuh! off, scamper, the mare ran out freshly 
with 0. Madden up. She was leading the field. All hearts were beating. Even Phyllis could not contain 
herself She waved her scarf and cried: Huzzah! Sceptre wins! But in the straight on the run home 
when all were in close order the dark horse Throwaway drew level, reached, outstripped her. All was 
lost now. Phyllis was silent: her eyes were sad anemones. Juno, she cried, I am undone. But her lover 
consoled her and brought her a bright casket of gold in which lay some oval sugarplums which she 
partook. A tear fell: one only. A whacking fine whip, said Lenehan, is W. Lane. Four winners 
yesterday and three today. What rider is like him? Mount him on the camel or the boisterous buffalo 
the victory in a hack canter is still his. But let us bear it as was the ancient wont. Mercy on the 
luckless! Poor Sceptre! he said with a light sigh She is not the filly that she was. Never, by this hand, 
shall we behold such another. By gad, sir, a queen of them Do you remember her, Vincent? I wish 
you could have seen my queen today, Vincent said. How young she was and radiant (Lalage were 
scarce fair beside her) in her yellow shoes and frock of muslin, I do not know the right name of it. The 
chestnuts that shaded us were in bloom the air drooped with their persuasive odour and with pollen 
floating by us. In the sunny patches one might easily have cooked on a stone a batch of those buns 
with Corinth fruit in them that Periplipomenes sells in his booth near the bridge. But she had nought for 
her teeth but the arm with which I held her and in that she nibbled mischievously when I pressed too 
close. A week ago she lay ill, four days on the couch, but today she was free, blithe, mocked at peri 
She is more taking then. Her posies tool Mad romp that she is, she had pulled her fill as we reclined 

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together. And in your ear, my friend, you will not think who met us as we left the field. Conmee 
himself! He was walking by the hedge, reading, I think a brevier book with I doubt not, a witty letter 
in it from Grycera or Chloe to keep the page. The sweet creature turned all colours in her confusion, 
feigning to reprove a slight disorder in her dress: a slip of underwood clung there for the very trees 
adore her. When Conmee had passed she glanced at her lovely echo in that little mirror she carries. 
But he had been kind. In going by he had blessed us. The gods too are ever kind, Lenehan said. If I 
had poor luck with Bass's mare perhaps this draught of his may serve me more propensery. He was 
laying his hand upon a winejar: Malachi saw it and withheld his act, pointing to the stranger and to the 
scarlet labeL Warily, Malachi whispered, preserve a druid silence. His soul is far away. It is as painful 
perhaps to be awakened from a vision as to be born. Any object, intensely regarded, may be a gate of 
access to the incorruptible eon of the gods. Do you not think it, Stephen? Theosophos told me so, 
Stephen answered, whom in a previous existence Egyptian priests initiated into the mysteries of karmic 
law. The lords of the moon, Theosophos told me, an orangefiery shipload from planet Alpha of the 
lunar chain would not assume the etheric doubles and these were therefore incarnated by the 
rubycoloured egos from the second constellation 

However, as a matter of fact though, the preposterous surmise about him being in some description 
of a doldrums or other or mesmerised which was entirely due to a misconception of the shallowest 
character, was not the case at all The individual whose visual organs while the above was going on 
were at this juncture commencing to exhibit symptoms of animation was as astute if not astuter than 
any man living and anybody that conjectured the contrary would have found themselves pretty 
speedily in the wrong shop. During the past four minutes or thereabouts he had been staring hard at a 
certain amount of number one Bass bottled by Messrs Bass and Co at Burton- on- Trent which 
happened to be situated amongst a lot of others right opposite to where he was and which was 
certainly calculated to attract anyone's remark on account of its scarlet appearance. He was simply 
and solely, as it subsequently transpired for reasons best known to himself, which put quite an 
altogether different complexion on the proceedings, after the moment before's observations about 
boyhood days and the turf, recollecting two or three private transactions of his own which the other 
two were as mutually innocent of as the babe unborn. Eventually, however, both their eyes met and as 
soon as it began to dawn on him that the other was endeavouring to help himself to the thing he 
involuntarily determined to help him himself and so he accordingly took hold of the neck of the 
mediumsized glass recipient which contained the fluid sought after and made a capacious hole in it by 
pouring a lot of it out with, also at the same time, however, a considerable degree of attentiveness in 
order not to upset any of the beer that was in it about the place. 

The debate which ensued was in its scope and progress an epitome of the course of life. Neither 
place nor council was lacking in dignity. The debaters were the keenest in the land, the theme they 
were engaged on the loftiest and most vitaL The high hall of Home's house had never beheld an 
assembly so representative and so varied nor had the old rafters of that establishment ever listened to 
a language so encyclopaedic. A gallant scene in truth it made. Crotthers was there at the foot of the 
table in his striking Highland garb, his face glowing from the briny airs of the Mull of Galloway. There 
too, opposite to him, was Lynch whose countenance bore already the stigmata of early depravity and 
premature wisdom Next the Scotchman was the place assigned to Costello, the eccentric, while at his 
side was seated in stolid repose the squat form of Madden. The chair of the resident indeed stood 
vacant before the hearth but on either flank of it the figure of Bannon in explorer's kit of tweed shorts 
and salted cowhide brogues contrasted sharply with the primrose elegance and townbred manners of 
Malachi Roland St John Mulligan. Lastly at the head of the board was the young poet who found a 
refuge from his labours of pedagogy and metaphysical inquisition in the convivial atmosphere of 
Socratic discussion, while to right and left of him were accommodated the flippant prognosticated, 
fresh from the hippodrome, and that vigilant wanderer, soiled by the dust of travel and combat and 
stained by the mire of an indelible dishonour, but from whose steadfast and constant heart no Lire or 
peril or threat or degradation could ever efface the image of that voluptuous loveliness which the 

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inspired pencil of Lafayette has limned for ages yet to come. 

It had better be stated here and now at the outset that the perverted transcendentalism to which Mr 
S. Dedalus' (Div. Seep.) contentions would appear to prove him pretty badly addicted runs directly 
counter to accepted scientific methods. Science, it cannot be too often repeated, deals with tangible 
phenomena. The man of science like the man in the street has to face hardheaded facts that cannot be 
blinked and explain them as best he can. There may be, it is true, some questions which science 
cannot answer — at present — such as the first problem submitted by Mr L. Bloom (Pubb. Canv.) 
regarding the future determination of sex. Must we accept the view of Empedocles of Trinacria that 
the right ovary (the postmenstrual period, assert others) is responsible for the birth of males or are the 
too long neglected spermatozoa or nemasperms the differentiating factors or is it, as most 
embryologists incline to opine, such as Culpepper, Spallanzani, Blumenbach, Lusk, Hertwig, Leopold 
and Valenti, a mixture of both? This would be tantamount to a cooperation (one of nature's favourite 
devices) between the nisus formativus of the nemasperm on the one hand and on the other a happily 
chosen position, succubitus felix of the passive element. The other problem raised by the same 
inquirer is scarcely less vital: infant mortality. It is interesting because, as he pertinently remarks, we are 
all born in the same way but we all die in different ways. Mr M. Mulligan (Hyg et Eug Doc.) blames 
the sanitary conditions in which our greylunged citizens contract adenoids, pulmonary complaints etc. 
by inhaling the bacteria which lurk in dust. These factors, he alleged, and the revolting spectacles 
offered by our streets, hideous publicity posters, religious ministers of all denominations, mutilated 
soldiers and sailors, exposed scorbutic cardrivers, the suspended carcases of dead animals, paranoic 
bachelors and unfructified duennas — these, he said, were accountable for any and every fallingoff in 
the calibre of the race. Kalipedia, he prophesied, would soon be generally adopted and all the graces 
of life, genuinely good music, agreeable literature, light philosophy, instructive pictures, plastercast 
reproductions of the classical statues such as Venus and Apollo, artistic coloured photographs of prize 
babies, all these little attentions would enable ladies who were in a particular condition to pass the 
intervening months in a most enjoyable manner. Mr J. Crotthers (Disc. Bacc.) attributes some of these 
demises to abdominal trauma in the case of women workers subjected to heavy labours in the 
workshop and to marital discipline in the home but by far the vast majority to neglect, private or 
official, culminating in the exposure of newborn infants, the practice of criminal abortion or in the 
atrocious crime of infanticide. Although the former (we are thinking of neglect) is undoubtedly only too 
true the case he cites of nurses forgetting to count the sponges in the peritoneal cavity is too rare to be 
normative. In fact when one comes to look into it the wonder is that so many pregnancies and 
deliveries go off so well as they do, all things considered and in spite of our human shortcomings which 
often baulk nature in her intentions. An ingenious suggestion is that thrown out by Mr V. Lynch (Bacc. 
Arith.) that both natality and mortality, as well as all other phenomena of evolution, tidal movements, 
lunar phases, blood temperatures, diseases in general, everything, in fine, in nature's vast workshop 
from the extinction of some remote sun to the blossoming of one of the countless flowers which 
beautify our public parks is subject to a law of numeration as yet unascertained. Still the plain 
straightforward question why a child of normally healthy parents and seemingly a healthy child and 
properly looked after succumbs unaccountably in early childhood (though other children of the same 
marriage do not) must certainly, in the poet's words, give us pause. Nature, we may rest assured, has 
her own good and cogent reasons for whatever she does and in all probability such deaths are due to 
some law of anticipation by which organisms in which morbous germs have taken up their residence 
(modern science has conclusively shown that only the plasmic substance can be said to be immortal) 
tend to disappear at an increasingly earlier stage of development, an arrangement which, though 
productive of pain to some of our feelings (notably the maternal), is nevertheless, some of us think, in 
the long run beneficial to the race in general in securing thereby the survival of the fittest. Mr S. 
Dedalus' (Div. Seep.) remark (or should it be called an interruption?) that an omnivorous being which 
can masticate, deglute, digest and apparently pass through the ordinary channel with pluterperfect 
imperturbability such multifarious aliments as cancrenous females emaciated by parturition, corpulent 
professional gentlemen, not to speak of jaundiced politicians and chlorotic nuns, might possibly find 

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gastric relief in an innocent collation of staggering bob, reveals as nought else could and in a very 
unsavoury light the tendency above alluded to. For the enlightenment of those who are not so 
intimately acquainted with the minutiae of the municipal abattoir as this morbidminded esthete and 
embryo philosopher who for all his overweening bumptiousness in things scientific can scarcely 
distinguish an acid from an alkali prides himself on being, it should perhaps be stated that staggering 
bob in the vile parlance of our lowerclass licensed victuallers signifies the cookable and eatable flesh of 
a calf newly dropped from its mother. In a recent public controversy with Mr L. Bloom (Pubb. Canv.) 
which took place in the commons' hall of the National Maternity Hospital, 29, 30 and 3 1 Holies street, 
of which, as is well known, Dr A. Home (Lie. in Midw., F. K. Q. C. P. I.) is the able and popular 
master, he is reported by eyewitnesses as having stated that once a woman has let the cat into the bag 
(an esthete's allusion, presumably, to one of the most complicated and marvellous of all nature's 
processes — the act of sexual congress) she must let it out again or give it life, as he phrased it, to save 
her own. At the risk of her own, was the telling rejoinder of his interlocutor, none the less effective for 
the moderate and measured tone in which it was delivered. 

Meanwhile the skill and patience of the physician had brought about a happy accouchement. It had 
been a weary weary while both for patient and doctor. All that surgical skill could do was done and 
the brave woman had manfully helped. She had. She had fought the good fight and now she was very 
very happy. Those who have passed on, who have gone before, are happy too as they gaze down and 
smile upon the touching scene. Reverently look at her as she reclines there with the motherlight in her 
eyes, that longing hunger for baby fingers (a pretty sight it is to see), in the first bloom of her new 
motherhood, breathing a silent prayer of thanksgiving to One above, the Universal Husband. And as 
her loving eyes behold her babe she wishes only one blessing more, to have her dear Doady there with 
her to share her joy, to lay in his arms that mite of God's clay, the fruit of their lawful embraces. He is 
older now (you and I may whisper it) and a trifle stooped in the shoulders yet in the whirligig of years a 
grave dignity has come to the conscientious second accountant of the Ulster bank, College Green 
branch. O Doady, loved one of old, faithful lifemate now, it may never be again, that farofftime of the 
roses! With the old shake of her pretty head she recalls those days. God! How beautiful now across 
the mist of years! But their children are grouped in her imagination about the bedside, hers and his, 
Charley, Mary Alice, Frederick Albert (if he had lived), Mamy, Budgy (Victoria Frances), Tom, 
Violet Constance Louisa, darling little Bobsy (called after our famous hero of the South African war, 
lord Bobs ofWaterford and Candahar) and now this last pledge of their union, a Purefoy if ever there 
was one, with the true Purefoy nose. Young hopeful will be christened Mortimer Edward after the 
influential third cousin of Mr Purefoy in the Treasury Remembrancer's office, Dublin Castle. And so 
time wags on: but father Cronion has dealt lightly here. No, let no sigh break from that bosom, dear 
gentle Mina. And Doady, knock the ashes from your pipe, the seasoned briar you still fancy when the 
curfew rings for you (may it be the distant day!) and dout the light whereby you read in the Sacred 
Book for the oil too has run low, and so with a tranquil heart to bed, to rest. He knows and will call in 
His own good time. You too have fought the good fight and played loyally your man's part. Sir, to you 
my hand. Well done, thou good and faithful servant! 

There are sins or (let us call them as the world calls them) evil memories which are hidden away by 
man in the darkest places of the heart but they abide there and wait. He may suffer their memory to 
grow dim, let them be as though they had not been and all but persuade himself that they were not or 
at least were otherwise. Yet a chance word will call them forth suddenly and they will rise up to 
confront him in the most various circumstances, a vision or a dream, or while timbrel and harp soothe 
his senses or amid the cool silver tranquility of the evening or at the feast, at midnight, when he is now 
filled with wine. Not to insult over him will the vision come as over one that lies under her wrath, not 
for vengeance to cut him off from the living but shrouded in the piteous vesture of the past, silent, 
remote, reproachfuL 

The stranger still regarded on the face before him a slow recession of that false calm there, 

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imposed, as it seemed, by habit or some studied trick, upon words so embittered as to accuse in their 
speaker an unhealthiness, a flair, for the cruder things of life. A scene disengages itself in the 
observer's memory, evoked, it would seem, by a word of so natural a homeliness as if those days 
were realty present there (as some thought) with their immediate pleasures. A shaven space of lawn 
one soft May evening, the wellremembered grove of lilacs at Roundtown, purple and white, fragrant 
slender spectators of the game but with much real interest in the pellets as they run slowly forward 
over the sward or collide and stop, one by its fellow, with a brief alert shock. And yonder about that 
grey urn where the water moves at times in thoughtful irrigation you saw another as fragrant 
sisterhood, Floey, Arty, Tiny and their darker friend with I know not what of arresting in her pose 
then, Our Lady of the Cherries, a comely brace of them pendent from an ear, bringing out the foreign 
warmth of the skin so daintily against the cool ardent fruit. A lad of four or five in linseywoolsey 
(blossomtime but there will be cheer in the kindly hearth when ere long the bowls are gathered and 
hutched) is standing on the urn secured by that circle of girlish fond hands. He frowns a little just as this 
young man does now with a perhaps too conscious enjoyment of the danger but must needs glance at 
whiles towards where his mother watches from the PIAZZETTA giving upon the flowerclose with a 
faint shadow of remoteness or of reproach (alles Vergangliche) in her glad look. 

Mark this farther and remember. The end comes suddenly. Enter that antechamber of birth where 
the studious are assembled and note their faces. Nothing, as it seems, there of rash or violent. 
Quietude of custody, rather, befitting their station in that house, the vigilant watch of shepherds and of 
angels about a crib in Bethlehem of Juda long ago. But as before the lightning the serried stormclouds, 
heavy with preponderant excess of moisture, in swollen masses turgidly distended, compass earth and 
sky in one vast slumber, impending above parched field and drowsy oxen and blighted growth of 
shrub and verdure till in an instant a flash rives their centres and with the reverberation of the thunder 
the cloudburst pours its torrent, so and not otherwise was the transformation, violent and 
instantaneous, upon the utterance of the word. 

Burke's! outflings my lord Stephen, giving the cry, and a tag and bobtail of all them after, cockerel, 
jackanapes, welsher, pilldoctor, punctual Bloom at heels with a universal grabbing at headgear, 
ashpknts, bilbos, Panama hats and scabbards, Zermatt alpenstocks and what not. A dedale of lusty 
youth, noble every student there. Nurse Callan taken aback in the hallway cannot stay them nor 
smiling surgeon coming downstairs with news of placentation ended, a full pound if a milligramme. 
They hark him on. The door! It is open? Ha! They are out, tumultuousry, off for a minute's race, all 
bravery legging it, Burke's of Denzille and Holies their ulterior goal. Dixon follows giving them sharp 
language but raps out an oath, he too, and on. Bloom stays with nurse a thought to send a kind word 
to happy mother and nurseling up there. Doctor Diet and Doctor Quiet. Looks she too not other now? 
Ward of watching in Home's house has told its tale in that washedout pallor. Then all being gone, a 
glance of motherwit helping, he whispers close in going: Madam, when comes the storkbird for thee? 

The air without is impregnated with raindew moisture, life essence celestial, glistening on Dublin 
stone there under starshiny coelum. God's air, the Allfather's air, scintillant circumambient cessile air. 
Breathe it deep into thee. By heaven, Theodore Purefoy, thou hast done a doughty deed and no 
botch! Thou art, I vow, the remarkablest progenitor barring none in this chaffering allincluding most 
farraginous chronicle. Astounding! In her lay a Godframed Godgiven preformed possibility which thou 
hast fructified with thy modicum of maris work. Cleave to her! Serve! Toil on, labour like a very 
bandog and let scholarment and all Malthusiasts go hang. Thou art all their daddies, Theodore. Art 
drooping under thy load, bemoiled with butcher's bills at home and ingots (not thine!) in the 
countinghouse? Head up! For every newbegotten thou shalt gather thy homer of ripe wheat. See, thy 
fleece is drenched. Dost envy Darby Dullman there with his Joan? A canting jay and a rheumeyed 
curdog is all their progeny. Pshaw, I tell thee! He is a mule, a dead gasteropod, without vim or 
stamina, not worth a cracked kreutzer. Copulation without population! No, say I! Herod's slaughter of 
the innocents were the truer name. Vegetables, forsooth, and sterile cohabitation! Give her beefsteaks, 

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red, raw, bleeding! She is a hoary pandemonium of ills, enlarged glands, mumps, quinsy, bunions, 
hayfever, bedsores, ringworm, floating kidney, Derbyshire neck, warts, bilious attacks, gallstones, 
cold feet, varicose veins. A truce to threnes and trentals and jeremies and all such congenital 
defunctive music! Twenty years of it, regret them not. With thee it was not as with many that will and 
would and wait and never — do. Thou sawest thy America, thy lifetask, and didst charge to cover like 
the transpontine bison. How saith Zarathustra? Deine Kuh Trubsal melkest Du. Nun Trinkst Du die 
susse Milch des Euters. See! it displodes for thee in abundance. Drink, man, an udderful! Mother's 
milk, Purefoy, the milk of human kin, milk too of those burgeoning stars overhead rutilant in thin 
rainvapour, punch milk, such as those rioters will quaff in their guzzling den, milk of madness, the 
honeymilk of Canaan's land. Thy cow's dug was tough what? Ay, but her milk is hot and sweet and 
fattening. No dollop this but thick rich bonnyclaber. To her, old patriarch! Pap! Per deam Partulam 
et Pertundam nunc est bibendum ! 

All off for a buster, armstrong, hollering down the street. Bonafides. Where you slep las nigh? 
Timothy of the battered naggin. Like ole Bilryo. Any brollies or gumboots in the fambfy? Where the 
Henry Nevil's sawbones and ole clo? Sorra one o' me knows. Hurrah there, Dix! Forward to the 
ribbon counter. Where's Punch? All serene. Jay, look at the drunken minister coining out of the 
maternity hospal! Benedicat vos omnipotens Deus, Pater et Filius, A make, mister. The Denzille 
lane boys. Hell, blast ye! Scoot. Righto, Isaacs, shove em out of the bleeding limelight. Yous join uz, 
dear sir? No hentrusion in life. Lou heap good man. Allee samee dis bunch. En avant, mes enfants] 
Fire away number one on the gun. Burke's! Burke's! Thence they advanced five parasangs. Slattery's 
mounted foot. Where's that bleeding awfur? Parson Steve, apostates' creed! No, no, Mulligan! Abaft 
there! Shove ahead. Keep a watch on the clock. Chuckingout time. Mullee! What's on you? Ma mere 
m'a mariee. British Beatitudes! Retamplatan Digidi Boumboum. Ayes have it. To be printed and 
bound at the Druiddrum press by two designing females. Calf covers of pissedon green. Last word in 
art shades. Most beautiful book come out of Ireland my time. Silentium! Get a spurt on. Tention. 
Proceed to nearest canteen and there annex liquor stores. March! Tramp, tramp, tramp, the boys are 
(atitudes!) parching. Beer, beef, business, bibles, bulldogs battleships, buggery and bishops. Whether 
on the scaffold high. Beer, beef, trample the bibles. When for Irelandear. Trample the trampellers. 
Thunderation! Keep the durned millingtary step. We fall Bishops boosebox. Halt! Heave to. Rugger. 
Scrum in No touch kicking. Wow, my tootsies! You hurt? Most amazingly sorry! 

Query. Who's astanding this here do? Proud possessor of damnall. Declare misery. Bet to the 
ropes. Me nantee saltee. Not a red at me this week gone. Yours? Mead of our fathers for the 
Ubermensch. Dittoh Five number ones. You, sir? Ginger cordiaL Chase me, the cabby's caudle. 
Stimulate the caloric. Winding of his ticker. Stopped short never to go again when the old. Absinthe 
for me, savvy? Caramba! Have an eggnog or a prairie oyster. Enemy? Avuncular's got my timepiece. 
Ten to. Obligated awful Don't mention it. Got a pectoral trauma, eh Dix? Pos fact. Got bet be a 
boomblebee whenever he wus settin sleepin in hes bit garten. Digs up near the Mater. Buckled he is. 
Know his dona? Yup, sartin I do. Full of a dure. See her in her dishybilry. Peels off a credit. Lovey 
lovekin. None of your lean kine, not much Pull down the blind, love. Two Ardilauns. Same here. 
Look slippery. If you fall don't wait to get up. Five, seven, nine. Fine! Got a prime pair of mincepies, 
no kid. And her take me to rests and her anker of rum Must be seen to be believed. Your starving 
eyes and albeplastered neck you stole my heart, O ghiepot. Sir? Spud again the rheumatiz? All 
poppycock, you'll scuse me saying. For the hoipolloi. I vear thee beest a gert vool. Well, doc? Back 
fro Lapland? Your corporosity sagaciating O K? How's the squaws and papooses? Womanbody 
after going on the straw? Stand and deliver. Password. There's hair. Ours the white death and the 
ruddy birth. Hi! Spit in your own eye, boss! Mummer's wire. Cribbed out of Meredith. Jesified, 
orchidised, pofycimical Jesuit! Aunty mine's writing Pa Kinch Baddybad Stephen lead astray 
goodygood Malachi. 

Hurroo! Collar the leather, youngun Roun wi the nappy. Here, Jock braw Hielentman's your 

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barleybree. Lang may your ham reek and your kailpot boil! My tipple. Merci. Here's to us. How's 
that? Leg before wicket. Don't stain my brandnew sitinems. Give's a shake ofpeppe, you there. Catch 
aholt. Caraway seed to carry away. Twig? Shrieks of silence. Every cove to his gentry mort. Venus 
Pandemos. Les petites femmes. Bold bad girl from the town of Mullingar. Tell her I was axing at her. 
Hauding Sara by the wame. On the road to Malahide. Me? If she who seduced me had left but the 
name. What do you want for ninepence? Machree, macruiskeen Smutty Moll for a mattress jig. And 
a pull all together. Ex! 

Waiting, guvnor? Most deciduousry. Bet your boots on. Stunned like, seeing as how no shiners is 
acoming Underconstumble? He've got the chink ad lib. Seed near free poun on un a spell ago a said 
war hisn. Us come right in on your invite, see? Up to you, matey. Out with the oof Two bar and a 
wing. You larn that go off of they there Frenchy bilks? Won't wash here for nuts nohow. Lil chile vefry 
sofry. Ise de cutest colour coon down our side. Gawds teruth, Chawley. We are nae fou We're nae 
tha fou. Au reservoir, mossoo. Tanks you. 

'Tis, sure. What say? In the speakeasy. Tight. I shee you, shir. Bantam, two days teetee. Bowsing 
nowtbut claretwine. Gam! Have a glint, do. Gum, I'm jiggered. And been to barber he have. Too full 
for words. With a railway bloke. How come you so? Opera he'd like? Rose of Castile. Rows of cast. 
Police! Some H20 for a gent fainted. Look at Bantam's flowers. Gemini He's going to holler. The 
colleen bawn My colleen bawn O, cheese it! Shut his blurry Dutch oven with a firm hand. Had the 
winner today till I tipped him a dead cert. The ruffin cry the nab of Stephen Hand as give me the jady 
coppaleen He strike a telegramboy paddock wire big bug Bass to the depot. Shove him a joey and 
grahamise. Mare on form hot order. Guinea to a goosegog. Tell a cram, that. Gospeltrue. Criminal 
diversion? I think that yes. Sure thing. Land him in chokeechokee if the harman beck copped the 
game. Madden back Madderfs a maddening back. O List our refuge and our strength. Decamping. 
Must you go? Off to mammy. Stand by. Hide my blushes someone. All in if he spots me. Come 
ahome, our Bantam Horryvar, mongvioo. Dinna forget the cowslips for hersel Cornfide. Wha gevye 
thoncolt? Pal to paL Jannock. Of John Thomas, her spouse. No fake, old man Leo. S'elp me, honest 
injun. Shiver my timbers if I had. There's a great big holy friar. Vyfor you no me tell? Vel, I ses, if that 
aint a sheeny nachez, vel, I vil get misha mishinnah. Through yerd our lord, Amen. 

You move a motion? Steve boy, you're going it some. More bhiggy drunkables? Will immensely 
splendiferous stander permit one stooder of most extreme poverty and one largesize grandacious thirst 
to terminate one expensive inaugurated libation? Give's a breather. Landlord, landlord, have you good 
wine, staboo? Hoots, mon, a wee drap to pree. Cut and come again. Right. Boniface! Absinthe the 
lot. Nos omnes biberimus viridum toxicum diabolus capiat posterioria nostria. Closingtime, 
gents. Eh? Rome boose for the Bloom toff I hear you say onions? Bloo? Cadges ads. Photo's papli, 
by all that's gorgeous. Play low, pardner. Slide. Bonsoir la compagnie. And snares of the poxfiend. 
Where's the buck and Namby Amby? Skunked? Leg bail Aweel, ye maun e'en gang yer gates. 
Checkmate. King to tower. Kind Kristyann wil yu help yung man hoose frend tuk bungellow kee tu 
find plais whear tu lay crown of his hed 2 night. Crickey, I'm about sprung. Tamafry dog gone my shins 
if this beent the bestest puttiest longbreak yet. Item, curate, couple of cookies for this child. Cot's 
plood and prandypalls, none! Not a pite of sheeses? Thrust syphilis down to hell and with him those 
other licensed spirits. Time, gents! Who wander through the world. Health all! a la votrel 

Golly, whatten tunket's yon guy in the mackintosh? Dusty Rhodes. Peep at his wearables. By 
mighty! What's he got? Jubilee mutton. Bovril, by James. Wants it real bad. D'ye ken bare socks? 
Seedy cuss in the Richmond? Rawthere! Thought he had a deposit of lead in his penis. Trumpery 
insanity. Bartle the Bread we calls him That, sir, was once a prosperous cit. Man all tattered and torn 
that married a maiden all forlorn Slung her hook, she did. Here see lost love. Walking Mackintosh of 
lonely canyon. Tuck and turn in. Schedule time. Nix for the hornies. Pardon? Seen him today at a 
runefal? Chumo' yourn passed in his checks? Ludamassy! Pore piccaninnies! Thou'llno be telling me 
thot, Pold veg! Did urns b kibble bigsplash crytears cos fren Padney was took off in black bag? Of all 

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de darkies Massa Pat was verra best. I never see the like since I was born Tiens, tiens, but it is well 
sad, that, my faith, yes. O, get, rev on a gradient one in nine. Live axle drives are souped. Lay you two 
to one Jenatzy licks him ruddy well hollow. Jappies? High angle fire, inyah! Sunk by war specials. Be 
worse for him, says he, nor any Rooshian Time all There's eleven of them Get ye gone. Forward, 
woozy wobblers! Night. Night. May Allah the Excellent One your soul this night ever tremendously 
conserve. 

Your attention! We're nae tha fou The Leith police dismisseth us. The least tholice. Ware hawks 
for the chap puking. Unwell in his abominable regions. Yooka. Night. Mona, my true love. Yook. 
Mona, my own love. Ook. 

Hark! Shut your obstropolos. Pflaap! Pflaap! Blaze on. There she goes. Brigade! Bout ship. Mount 
street way. Cut up! Pflaap! Tally ho. You not come? Run, skelter, race. Pflaaaap! 

Lynch! Hey? Sign on long o' me. Denzille lane this way. Change here for Bawdyhouse. We two, 
she said, will seek the kips where shady Mary is. Righto, any old time. Laetabuntur in cubilibus suis. 
You coming long? Whisper, who the sooty hell's the johnny in the black duds? Hush! Sinned against 
the light and even now that day is at hand when he shall come to judge the world by fire. Pflaap! Ut 
implerentur scripturae. Strike up a ballad. Then outspake medical Dick to his comrade medical 
Davy. Christicle, who's this excrement yellow gospeller on the Merrion hall? Elijah is coming! Washed 
in the blood of the Lamb. Come on you winefizzling, ginsizzling, booseguzzJing existences! Come on, 
you dog-gone, bullnecked, beetlebrowed, hogjowled, peanutbrained, weaseleyed fourflushers, false 
alarms and excess baggage! Come on, you triple extract of infamy! Alexander J Christ Dowie, that's 
my name, that's yanked to glory most half this planet from Frisco beach to Vladivostok. The Deity aint 
no nickel dime bumshow. I put it to you that He's on the square and a corking fine business 
proposition. He's the grandest thing yet and don't you forget it. Shout salvation in King Jesus. You'll 
need to rise precious early you sinner there, if you want to diddle the Almighty God. Pflaaaap! Not 
half He's got a coughmixture with a punch in it for you, my friend, in his back pocket. Just you try it 
on. 

The Mabbot street entrance of nighttown, before which stretches an uncobbled tramsiding 
set with skeleton tracks, red and green will-o '-the-wisps and danger signals. Rows of grimy 
houses with gaping doors. Rare lamps with faint rainbow fins. Round Rabaiotti's halted ice 
gondola stunted men and women squabble. They grab wafers between which are wedged lumps 
of coral and copper snow. Sucking, they scatter slowly. Children. The swancomb of the 
gondola, highreared, forges on through the murk, white and blue under a lighthouse. Whistles 
call and answer. 

THE CALLS: Wait, my love, and I'll be with you 

THE ANSWERS: Round behind the stable. 

(A deafmute idiot with goggle eyes, his shapeless mouth dribbling, jerks past, shaken in Saint 
Vitus' dance. A chain of children 's hands imprisons him.) 

THE CHILDREN: Kithogue! Salute! 

THE IDIOT: (Lifts a palsied left arm and gurgles) Grhahute! 

THE CHILDREN: Where's the great light? 

THE IDIOT: (Gobbing) Ghaghahest. 

(They release him. He jerks on. A pigmy woman swings on a rope slung between two railings, 
counting. A form sprawled against a dustbin and muffled by its arm and hat snores, groans, 
grinding growling teeth, and snores again. On a step a gnome totting among a rubbishtip 

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crouches to shoulder a sack of rags and bones. A crone standing by with a smoky oillamp rams 
her last bottle in the maw of his sack. He heaves his booty, tugs askew his peaked cap and 
hobbles off mutely. The crone makes back for her lair, swaying her lamp. A bandy child, asquat 
on the doorstep with a paper shuttlecock, crawls sidling after her in spurts, clutches her skirt, 
scrambles up. A drunken navvy grips with both hands the railings of an area, lurching heavily. 
At a comer two night watch in shoulder capes, their hands upon their staffholsters, loom tall. A 
plate crashes: a woman screams: a child wails. Oaths of a man roar, mutter, cease. Figures 
wander, lurk, peer from warrens. In a room lit by a candle stuck in a bottleneck a slut combs 
out the tatts from the hair of a scrofulous child. Cissy Caffrey's voice, still young, sings shrill 
from a lane.) 

CISSY CAFFREY: 

I gave it to Molly 
Because she was jolly, 
The leg of the duck, 
The leg of the duck. 

(Private Carr and Private Compton, swaggersticks tight in their oxters, as they march 
unsteadily rightaboutface and burst together from their mouths a volleyed fart. Laughter of 
men from the lane. A hoarse virago retorts.) 

THE VIRAGO: Signs on you, hairy arse. More power the Cavan giri. 

CISSY CAFFREY: More hick to me. Cavan, Cootehi and Belturbet. (She sings) 

I gave it to Nelly 
To stick in her belly, 
The leg of the duck, 
The leg of the duck. 

(Private Carr and Private Compton turn and counterretort, their tunics bloodbright in a 
lampglow, black sockets of caps on their blond cropped polls. Stephen Dedalus and Lynch pass 
through the crowd close to the redcoats.) 

PRIVATE COMPTON: (Jerks his finger) Way for the parson. 

PRIVATE CARR: (Turns and calls) What ho, parson! 

CISSY CAFFREY: (Her voice soaring higher) 

She has it, she got it, 
Wherever she put it, 
The leg of the duck. 

(Stephen, flourishing the ashplant in his left hand, chants with joy the introit for paschal time. 
Lynch, his jockeycap low on his brow, attends him, a sneer of discontent wrinkling his face.) 

STEPHEN: Vidi aquam egredientem de templo a latere dextro. Alleluia. 

(The famished snaggletusks of an elderly bawd protrude from a doorway.) 

THE BAWD: (Her voice whispering huskily) Sst! Come here till I tell you. Maidenhead inside. 
Sst! 

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STEPHEN: (Altius aliquantulum) Et omnes ad quos pervenit aqua ista. 

THE BAWD: (Spits in their trail her jet of venom) Trinity medicals. Fallopian tube. All prick and 
no pence. 

(Edy Boardman, sniffling, crouched with bertha supple, draws her shawl across her nostrils.) 

EDY BOARDMAN: (Bickering) And says the one: I seen you up Faithful place with your 
squarepusher, the greaser off the railway, in his cometobed hat. Did you, says I. That's not for you to 
say, says I. You never seen me in the mantrap with a married highlander, says I. The likes of her! Stag 
that one is! Stubborn as a mule! And her walking with two fellows the one time, Kilbride, the 
enginedriver, and lancecorporalOliphant. 

STEPHEN: (Ttriumphaliter) Salvifactisunt. 

(He flourishes his ashplant, shivering the lamp image, shattering light over the world. A liver 
and white spaniel on the prowl slinks after him, growling. Lynch scares it with a kick.) 

LYNCH: So that? 

STEPHEN: (Looks behind) So that gesture, not music not odour, would be a universal language, 
the gift of tongues rendering visible not the lay sense but the first entelechy, the structural rhythm 

LYNCH: Pomosophicalphilotheology. Metaphysics in Mecklenburgh street! 

STEPHEN: We have shrewridden Shakespeare and henpecked Socrates. Even the allwisest 
Stagyrite was bitted, bridled and mounted by a light of love. 

LYNCH: Ba! 

STEPHEN: Anyway, who wants two gestures to illustrate a loaf and a jug? This movement 
illustrates the loaf and jug of bread or wine in Omar. Hold my stick. 

LYNCH: Damn your yellow stick. Where are we going? 

STEPHEN: Lecherous lynx, to la belle dame sans merci, Georgina Johnson, ad deam qui 
laetificat iuventutem meam. 

(Stephen thrusts the ashplant on him and slowly holds out his hands, his head going back till 
both hands are a span from his breast, down turned, in planes intersecting, the fingers about to 
part, the left being higher.) 

LYNCH: Which is the jug of bread? It skills not. That or the customhouse. Illustrate thou. Here 
take your crutch and walk. 

(They pass. Tommy Caffrey scrambles to a gaslamp and, clasping, climbs in spasms. From 
the top spur he slides down. Jacky Caffrey clasps to climb. The navvy lurches against the lamp. 
The twins scuttle off in the dark. The navvy, swaying, presses a forefinger against a wing of his 
nose and ejects from the farther nostril a long liquid jet of snot. Shouldering the lamp he 
staggers away through the crowd with his flaring cresset. 

Snakes of river fog creep slowly. From drains, clefts, cesspools, middens arise on all sides 
stagnant fumes. A glow leaps in the south beyond the seaward reaches of the river. The navvy, 
staggering forward, cleaves the crowd and lurches towards the tramsiding on the farther side 
under the railway bridge bloom appears, flushed, panting, cramming bread and chocolate into 
a sidepocket. From Gillen's hairdresser's window a composite portrait shows him gallant 
Nelson's image. A concave mirror at the side presents to him lovelorn longlost lugubru 
Booloohoom. Grave Gladstone sees him level, Bloom for Bloom, he passes, struck by the stare 

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of truculent Wellington, but in the convex mirror grin unstruck the bonham eyes and fatchuck 
cheekchops of Jollypoldy the rixdix doldy. 

At Antonio Pabaiotti's door Bloom halts, sweated under the bright arclamp. He disappears. 
In a moment he reappears and hurries on.) 

BLOOM: Fish and taters. N. g. Ah! 

(He disappears into Olhausen's, the porkbutcher's, under the downcoming rollshutter. A few 
moments later he emerges from under the shutter, puffing Poldy, blowing Bloohoom. In each 
hand he holds a parcel, one containing a lukewarm pig's crubeen, the other a cold sheep's 
trotter, sprinkled with wholepepper. He gasps, standing upright. Then bending to one side he 
presses a parcel against his ribs and groans.) 

BLOOM: Stitch in my side. Why did I run? 

(He takes breath with care and goes forward slowly towards the lampset siding. The glow 
leaps again.) 

BLOOM: What is that? A flasher? Searchlight. 

(He stands at Cormack's corner, watching) 

BLOOM: Aurora borealis or a steel foundry? Ah, the brigade, of course. South side anyhow. Big 
blaze. Might be his house. Beggar's bush We're safe. (He hums cheerfully) London's burning, 
London's burning! On fire, on fire! (He catches sight of the navvy lurching through the crowd at 
the farther side of Talbot street) I'll miss him Run Quick. Better cross here. 

(He darts to cross the road. Urchins shout.) 

THE URCHINS: Mind out, mister! (Two cyclists, with lighted paper lanterns aswing, swim by 
him, grazing him, their bells rattling) 

THE BELLS: HaltyaltyaltyalL 

BLOOM: (Halts erect, stung by a spasm) Ow! 

(He looks round, darts forward suddenly. Through rising fog a dragon sandstrewer, 
travelling at caution, slews heavily down upon him, its huge red headlight winking, its trolley 
hissing on the wire. The motorman bangs his footgong.) 

THE GONG: Bang Bang Bla Bak BLid Bugg Bloo. 

(The brake cracks violently. Bloom, raising a policeman's whitegloved hand, blunders 
stifflegged out of the track. The motorman, thrown forward, pugnosed, on the guidewheel, yells 
as he slides past over chains and keys.) 

THE MOTORMAN: Hey, shitbreeches, are you doing the hat trick? 

BLOOM: (Bloom trickleaps to the curbstone and halts again. He brushes a mudflake from 
his cheek with a parcelled hand.) No thoroughfare. Close shave that but cured the stitch Must take 
up Sandow's exercises again. On the hands down. Insure against street accident too. The ProvidentiaL 
(He feels his trouser pocket) Poor mamma's panacea. Heel easily catch in track or bootlace in a cog. 
Day the wheel of the black Maria peeled off my shoe at Leonard's corner. Third time is the charm 
Shoe trick. Insolent driver. I ought to report him Tension makes them nervous. Might be the fellow 
balked me this morning with that horsey woman Same style of beauty. Quick of him all the same. The 
stiff walk. True word spoken in jest. That awful cramp in Lad lane. Something poisonous I ate. 
Emblem of kick. Why? Probably lost cattle. Mark of the beast. (He closes his eyes an instant) Bit 

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light in the head. Monthly or effect of the other. Brainfogfag. That tired feeling. Too much for me now. 
Ow! 

(A sinister figure leans on plaited legs against o'beirne's wall, a visage unknown, injected with dark 
mercury. From under a wideleaved sombrero the figure regards him with evil eye.) 

BLOOM: Buenas noches, sehorita Blanca, que calle es esta? 

THE FIGURE: {Impassive, raises a signal arm) Password. Sraid Mabbot. 

BLOOM: Haha. Merci. Esperanto. Slan leath. (He mutters) Gaelic league spy, sent by that 
fireeater. 

(He steps forward. A sackshouldered ragman bars his path. He steps left, ragsackman left.) 

BLOOM: I beg. (He swerves, sidles, stepaside, slips past and on.) 

BLOOM: Keep to the right, right, right. If there is a signpost planted by the Touring Club at 
Stepaside who procured that public boon? I who lost my way and contributed to the columns of the 
Irish Cyclist the letter headed In darkest Stepaside. Keep, keep, keep to the right. Rags and bones 
at midnight. A fence more likely. First place murderer makes for. Wash off his sins of the world. 

(Jacky Caffrey, hunted by Tommy Caffrey, runs full tilt against Bloom.) 

BLOOM: O 

(Shocked, on weak hams, he halts. Tommy and Jacky vanish there, there. Bloom pats with 
parcelled hands watch fobpocket, bookpocket, pursepoket, sweets of sin, potato soap.) 

BLOOM: Beware of pickpockets. Old thieves' dodge. Colde. Then snatch your purse. 

(The retriever approaches sniffing, nose to the ground. A sprawled form sneezes. A stooped 
bearded figure appears garbed in the long caftan of an elder in Zion and a smokingcap with 
magenta tassels. Horned spectacles hang down at the wings of the nose. Yellow poison streaks 
are on the drawn face.) 

RUDOLPH: Second halfcrown waste money today. I told you not go with drunken goy ever. So 
you catch no money. 

BLOOM: (Hides the crubeen and trotter behind his back and, crestfallen, feels warm and 
cold feetmeat) Ja, ich weiss, papachi. 

RUDOLPH: What you making down this place? Have you no soul? (with feeble vulture talons he 
feels the silent face of Bloom) Are you not my son Leopold, the grandson of Leopold? Are you not 
my dear son Leopold who left the house of his father and left the god of his fathers Abraham and 
Jacob? 

BLOOM: (With precaution) I suppose so, father. MosenthaL All that's left of him. 

RUDOLPH: (Severely) One night they bring you home drunk as dog after spend your good 
money. What you call them running chaps? 

BLOOM: (In youth's smart blue Oxford suit with white vestslips, narrowshouldered, in 
brown Alpine hat, wearing gent's sterling silver waterbury keyless watch and double curb 
Albert with seal attached, one side of him coated with stiffening mud) Harriers, father. Only that 
once. 

RUDOLPH: Once! Mud head to foot. Cut your hand open. Lockjaw. They make you kaputt, 

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Leopoldleben. You watch them chaps. 

BLOOM: (Weakly) They challenged me to a sprint. It was muddy. I slipped. 

RUDOLPH: (With contempt) Goim nachez] Nice spectacles for your poor mother! 

BLOOM: Mamma! 

ELLEN BLOOM: (In pantomime dame's stringed mobcap, widow Twanhey's crinoline and 
bustle, blouse with muttonleg sleeves buttoned behind, grey mittens and cameo brooch, her 
plaited hair in a crispine net, appears over the staircase banisters, a slanted candlestick in her 
hand, and cries out in shrill alarm) O blessed Redeemer, what have they done to him! My smelling 
salts! (She hauls up a reef of skirt and ransacks the pouch of her striped blay petticoat. A phial, 
an Agnus Dei, a shrivelled potato and a celluloid doll fall out) Sacred Heart of Mary, where were 
you at all at all? 

(Bloom, mumbling, his eyes downcast, begins to bestow his parcels in his filled pockets but 
desists, muttering.) 

A VOICE: (Sharply) Poldy! 

BLOOM: Who? (He ducks and wards off a blow clumsily) At your service. 

(He looks up. Beside her mirage of datepalms a handsome woman in Turkish costume stands 
before him. Opulent curves fill out her scarlet trousers and jacket, slashed with gold. A wide 
yellow cummerbund girdles her. A white yashmak, violet in the night, covers her face, leaving 
free only her large dark eyes and raven hair.) 

BLOOM: Molly! 

MARION: Welly? Mrs Marion from this out, my dear man, when you speak to me. (Satirically) 
Has poor little hubby cold feet waiting so long? 

BLOOM: (Shifts from foot to foot) No, no. Not the least little bit. 

(He breathes in deep agitation, swallowing gulps of air, questions, hopes, crubeens for her 
supper, things to tell her, excuse, desire, spellbound. A coin gleams on her forehead. On her feet 
are jewelled toerings. Her ankles are linked by a slender fetterchain. Beside her a camel, 
hooded with a turreting turban, waits. A silk ladder of innumerable rungs climbs to his bobbing 
howdah. He ambles near with disgruntled hindquarters. Fiercely she slaps his haunch, her 
goldcurb wristbangles angriling, scolding him in Moorish.) 

MARION: Nebrakada! Femininum! 

(The camel, lifting a foreleg, plucks from a tree a large mango fruit, offers it to his mistress, 
blinking, in his cloven hoof, then droops his head and, grunting, with uplifted neck, fumbles to 
kneel. Bloom stoops his back for leapfrog.) 

BLOOM: I can give you... I mean as your business menagerer... Mrs Marion... if you... 

MARION: So you notice some change? (Her hands passing slowly over her trinketed 
stomacher, a slow friendly mockery in her eyes) O Poldy, Poldy, you are a poor old stick in the 
mud! Go and see life. See the wide world. 

BLOOM: I was just going back for that lotion whitewax, orangeflower water. Shop closes early on 
Thursday. But the first thing in the morning. (He pats divers pockets) This moving kidney. Ah! 

(He points to the south, then to the east. A cake of new clean lemon soap arises, diffusing 

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light and perfume.) 

THE SOAP: We're a capital couple are Bloom and I. He brightens the earth. I polish the sky. 

(The freckled face ofSweny, the druggist, appears in the disc of the soapsun.) 

SWENY: Three and a penny, please. 

BLOOM: Yes. For my wife. Mrs Marion. Special recipe. 

MARION: (Softly) Poldy! 

BLOOM: Yes, ma'am? 

MARION: ti trema un poco il cuore? 

(In disdain she saunters away, plump as a pampered pouter pigeon, humming the duet from 
Don Giovanni) 

BLOOM: Are you sure about that voglio? I mean the pronunciati... 

(He follows, followed by the sniffing terrier. The elderly bawd seizes his sleeve, the bristles of 
her chinmole glittering.) 

THE BAWD: Ten shillings a maidenhead. Fresh thing was never touched. Fifteen. There's no-one 
in it only her old father that's dead drunk. 

(She points. In the gap of her dark den furtive, rainbedraggled, Bridie Kelly stands.) 

BRIDIE: Hatch street. Any good in your mind? 

(With a squeak she flaps her bat shawl and runs. A burly rough pursues with booted strides. 
He stumbles on the steps, recovers, plunges into gloom. Weak squeaks of laughter are heard, 
weaker.) 

THE BAWD: (Her wolfeyes shining) He's getting his pleasure. You won't get a virgin in the flash 
houses. Ten shillings. Don't be all night before the polis in plain clothes sees us. Sixtyseven is a bitch. 

(Leering, Gerty Macdowell limps forward. She draws from behind, ogling, and shows coyly 
her bloodied clout.) 

GERTY: With all my worldly goods I thee and thou. (She murmurs) You did that. I hate you. 

BLOOM: I? When? You're dreaming. I never saw you. 

THE BAWD: Leave the gentleman alone, you cheat. Writing the gentleman false letters. 
Streetwalking and soliciting. Better for your mother take the strap to you at the bedpost, hussy like 
you. 

GERTY: (To Bloom) When you saw all the secrets of my bottom drawer. (She paws his sleeve, 
slobbering) Dirty married man! I love you for doing that to me. 

(She glides away crookedly. Mrs Breen in man's frieze overcoat with loose bellows pockets, 
stands in the causeway, her roguish eyes wideopen, smiling in all her herbivorous buckteeth.) 

MRS BREEN: Mr... 

BLOOM: (Coughs gravely) Madam, when we last had this pleasure by letter dated the sixteenth 
instant... 

MRS BREEN: Mr Bloom! You down here in the haunts of sin! I caught you nicely! Scamp! 

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BLOOM: (Hurriedly) Not so loud my name. Whatever do you think of me? Don't give me away. 
Walls have ears. How do you do? It's ages since I. You're looking splendid. Absolutely it. Seasonable 
weather we are having this time of year. Black refracts heat. Short cut home here. Interesting quarter. 
Rescue of fallen women. Magdalen asylum. I am the secretary... 

MRS BREEN: (Holds up a finger) Now, don't tell a big fib! I know somebody won't like that. O 
just wait till I see Molly! (Slily) Account for yourself this very sminute or woe betide you! 

BLOOM: (Looks behind) She often said she'd like to visit. Slumming. The exotic, you see. Negro 
servants in livery too if she had money. Othello black brute. Eugene Stratton. Even the bones and 
cornerman at the Livermore Christies. Bohee brothers. Sweep for that matter. 

(Tom and Sam Bohee, coloured coons in white duck suits, scarlet socks, upstarched Sambo 
chokers and large scarlet asters in their buttonholes, leap out. Each has his banjo slung. Their 
paler smaller negroid hands jingle the twingtwang wires. Flashing white Kaffir eyes and tusks 
they rattle through a breakdown in clumsy clogs, twinging, singing, back to back, toe heel, heel 
toe, with smackfatclacking nigger lips.) 

TOM AND SAM: 

There's someone in the house with Dina 
There's someone in the house, I know, 
There's someone in the house with Dina 
Playing on the old banjo. 

(They whisk black masks from raw babby faces: then, chuckling, chortling, trumming, 
twanging, they diddle diddle cakewalk dance away.) 

BLOOM: (With a sour tenderish smile) A little frivol, shall we, if you are so inclined? Would you 
like me perhaps to embrace you just for a fraction of a second? 

MRS BREEN: (Screams gaily) O, you ruck! You ought to see yourself! 

BLOOM: For old sake' sake. I only meant a square party, a mixed marriage mingling of our 
different little conjugials. You know I had a soft corner for you. (Gloomily) 'Twas I sent you that 
valentine of the dear gazelle. 

MRS BREEN: Glory Alice, you do look a holy show! Killing simply. (She puts out her hand 
inquisitively) What are you hiding behind your back? Tell us, there's a dear. 

BLOOM: (Seizes her wrist with his free hand) Josie Powell that was, prettiest deb in Dublin. 
How time flies by! Do you remember, harking back in a retrospective arrangement, Old Christmas 
night, Georgina Simpson's housewarming while they were playing the Irving Bishop game, finding the 
pin blindfold and thoughtreading? Subject, what is in this snuflbox? 

MRS BREEN: You were the lion of the night with your seriocomic recitation and you looked the 
part. You were always a favourite with the ladies. 

BLOOM: (Squire of dames, in dinner jacket with w at eredsilk facings, blue masonic badge in 
his buttonhole, black bow and mother-of-pearl studs, a prismatic champagne glass tilted in his 
hand) Ladies and gentlemen, I give you Ireland, home and beauty. 

MRS BREEN: The dear dead days beyond recall Love's old sweet song. 

BLOOM: (Meaningfully dropping his voice) I confess I'm teapot with curiosity to find out 
whether some person's something is a little teapot at present. 

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MRS BREEN: (Gushingly) Tremendously teapot! London's teapot and I'm simply teapot all over 
me! (She rubs sides with him) After the parlour mystery games and the crackers from the tree we sat 
on the staircase ottoman Under the mistletoe. Two is company. 

BLOOM: (Wearing a purple Napoleon hat with an amber halfmoon, his fingers and thumb 
passing slowly down to her soft moist meaty palm which she surrenders gently) The witching 
hour of night. I took the splinter out of this hand, carefully, slowly. (Tenderly, as he slips on her 
finger a ruby ring) La ci darem la mano. 

MRS BREEN: (In a onepiece evening frock executed in moonlight blue, a tinsel sylph's 
diadem on her brow with her dancecard fallen beside her moonblue satin slipper, curves her 
palm softly, breathing quickly) Voglio e non. You're hot! You're scalding! The left hand nearest the 
heart. 

BLOOM: When you made your present choice they said it was beauty and the beast. I can never 
forgive you for that. (His clenched fist at his brow) Think what it means. All you meant to me then. 
(Hoarsely) Woman, it's breaking me! 

(Denis Breen, whitetallhatted, with Wisdom Hely's sandwich-boards, shuffles past them in 
carpet slippers, his dull beard thrust out, muttering to right and left. Little Alf Bergan, cloaked 
in the pall of the ace of spades, dogs him to left and right, doubled in laughter.) 

ALF BERGAN: (Points jeering at the sandwichboards) U. p: Up. 

MRS BREEN: (To Bloom) High jinks below stairs. (She gives him the glad eye) Why didn't you 
kiss the spot to make it well? You wanted to. 

BLOOM: (Shocked) Molly's best friend! Could you? 

MRS BREEN: (Her pulpy tongue between her lips, offers a pigeon kiss) Hnhn. The answer is a 
lemon. Have you a little present for me there? 

BLOOM: (Offhandedly) Kosher. A snack for supper. The home without potted meat is 
incomplete. I was at Leah. Mrs Bandmann Palmer. Trenchant exponent of Shakespeare. 
Unfortunately threw away the programme. Rattling good place round there for pigs' feet. Feel. 

(Richie Goulding, three ladies' hats pinned on his head, appears weighted to one side by the 
black legal bag of Collis and Ward on which a skull and crossbones are painted in white 
limewash. He opens it and shows it full of polonies, kippered herrings, Findon haddies and 
tigh tpacked pills.) 

RICHIE: Best value in Dub. 

(Bald Pat, bothered beetle, stands on the curbstone, folding his napkin, waiting to wait.) 

PAT: (Advances with a tilted dish of spillspilling gravy) Steak and kidney. Bottle of lager. Hee 
hee hee. Wait till I wait. 

RICHIE: Goodgod. Ineverate inalL. 

(With hanging head he marches doggedly forward. The navvy, lurching by, gores him with 
his flaming pronghorn.) 

RICHIE: (With a cry of pain, his hand to his back) Ah! Bright's! Lights! 

BLOOM: (Ooints to the navvy) A spy. Don't attract attention. I hate stupid crowds. I am not on 
pleasure bent. I am in a grave predicament. 

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MRS BREEN: Humbugging and deluthering as per usual with your cock and bull story. 

BLOOM: I want to tell you a little secret about how I came to be here. But you must never tell. 
Not even Molly. I have a most particular reason 

MRS BREEN: (All agog) O, not for worlds. 

BLOOM: Let's walk on. Shall us? 

MRS BREEN: Let's. 

(The bawd makes an unheeded sign. Bloom walks on with Mrs Breen. The terrier follows, 
whining pit eously, wagging his tail.) 

THE BAWD: Jewman's melt! 

BLOOM: (In an oatmeal sporting suit, a sprig of woodbine in the lapel, tony buff shirt, 
shepherd's plaid Saint Andrew's cross scarftie, white spats, fawn dustcoat on his arm, tawny 
red brogues, fieldglasses in bandolier and a grey billycock hat) Do you remember a long long 
time, years and years ago, just after Milry, Marionette we called her, was weaned when we all went 
together to Fairyhouse races, was it? 

MRS BREEN: (In smart Saxe tailormade, white velours hat and spider veil) Leopardstown 

BLOOM: I mean, Leopardstown. And Molly won seven shillings on a three year old named 
Nevertell and coming home along by Foxrock in that old fiveseater shanderadan of a waggonette you 
were in your heyday then and you had on that new hat of white velours with a surround of molefur that 
Mrs Hayes advised you to buy because it was marked down to nineteen and eleven, a bit of wire and 
an old rag of velveteen, and I'll lay you what you like she did it on purpose... 

MRS BREEN: She did, of course, the cat! Don't tell me! Nice adviser! 

BLOOM: Because it didn't suit you one quarter as well as the other ducky little tammy toque with 
the bird of paradise wing in it that I admired on you and you honestly looked just too fetching in it 
though it was a pity to kill it, you cruel naughty creature, little mite of a thing with a heart the size of a 
fullstop. 

MRS BREEN: (Squeezes his arm, simpers) Naughty cruel I was! 

BLOOM: (Low, secretly, ever more rapidly) And Molly was eating a sandwich of spiced beef 
out of Mrs Joe Gallaher's lunch basket. Frankly, though she had her advisers or admirers, I never 
cared much for her style. She was... 

MRS BREEN: Too... 

BLOOM: Yes. And Molly was laughing because Rogers and Maggot O'Reilly were mimicking a 
cock as we passed a farmhouse and Marcus Tertius Moses, the tea merchant, drove past us in a gig 
with his daughter, Dancer Moses was her name, and the poodle in her lap bridled up and you asked 
me if I ever heard or read or knew or came across... 

MRS BREEN: (Eagerly) Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes. 

(She fades from his side. Followed by the whining dog he walks on towards hellsgates. In an 
archway a standing woman, bent forward, her feet apart, pisses cowily. Outside a shuttered 
pub a bunch of loiterers listen to a tale which their brokensnouted gaffer rasps out with 
raucous humour. An armless pair of them flop wrestling, growling, in maimed sodden 
playfight.) 

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THE GAFFER: (Crouches, his voice twisted in his snout) And when Cairns came down from the 
scaffolding in Beaver street what was he after doing it into only into the bucket of porter that was there 
waiting on the shavings for Derwan's plasterers. 

THE LOITERERS: (Guffaw with cleft palates) O jays! 

(Their paintspeckled hats wag. Spattered with size and lime of their lodges they frisk 
limblessly about him.) 

BLOOM: Coincidence too. They think it funny. Anything but that. Broad daylight. Trying to walk. 
Lucky no woman. 

THE LOITERERS: Jays, that's a good one. Glauber salts. O jays, into the men's porter. 

(Bloom passes. Cheap whores, singly, coupled, shawled, dishevelled, call from lanes, doors, 
corners.) 

THE WHORES: 

Are you going far, queer fellow? 

How's your middle leg? 

Got a match on you? 

Eh, come here till I stiffen it for you. 

(He plodges through their sump towards the lighted street beyond. From a bulge of window 
curtains a gramophone rears a battered brazen trunk. In the shadow a shebeenkeeper haggles 
with the navvy and the two redcoats.) 

THE NAVVY: (Belching) Where's the bloody house? 

THE SHEBEENKEEPER: Purdon street. Shilling a bottle of stout. Respectable woman. 

THE NAVVY: (Gripping the two redcoats, staggers forward with them) Come on, you British 
army! 

PRIVATE CARR: (Behind his back) He aint half balmy. 

PRIVATE COMPTON: (Laughs) What ho! 

PRIVATE CARR: (To the navvy) Portobello barracks canteen. You ask for Carr. Just Carr. 

THE NAVVY: (Shouts) 

We are the boys. Of Wexford. 

PRIVATE COMPTON: Say! What price the sergeantmajor? 

PRIVATE CARR: Bennett? He's my paL I love old Bennett. 

THE NAVVY: (Shouts) 

The galling chain 

And free our native land. 

(He staggers forward, dragging them with him. Bloom stops, at fault. The dog approaches, 
his tongue outlolling, panting) 

BLOOM: Wildgoose chase this. Disorderly houses. Lord knows where they are gone. Drunks 

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cover distance double quick. Nice mixup. Scene at Westland row. Then jump in first class with third 
ticket. Then too for. Train with engine behind. Might have taken me to Malahide or a siding for the 
night or collision Second drink does it. Once is a dose. What am I following him for? Still, he's the 
best of that lot. If I hadn't heard about Mrs Beaufoy Purefoy I wouldn't have gone and wouldn't have 
met. Kismet. He'll lose that cash. Relieving office here. Good biz for cheapjacks, organs. What do ye 
lack? Soon got, soon gone. Might have lost my life too with that 
mangongwheeltracktrolleyglarejuggernaut only for presence of mind. Can't always save you, though. If 
I had passed True lock's window that day two minutes later would have been shot. Absence of body. 
Still if bullet only went through my coat get damages for shock, five hundred pounds. What was he? 
Kildare street club toff God help his gamekeeper. 

(He gazes ahead, reading on the wall a scrawled chalk legend Wet Dream and a phallic 
design.) Odd! Molly drawing on the frosted carriagepane at Kingstown. What's that like? (Gaudy 
dollwomen loll in the lighted doorways, in window embrasures, smoking birdseye cigarettes. 
The odour of the sicksweet weed floats towards him in slow round ov ailing wreaths.) 

THE WREATHS: Sweet are the sweets. Sweets of sin. 

BLOOM: My spine's a bit limp. Go or turn? And this food? Eat it and get all pigsticky. Absurd I 
am. Waste of money. One and eightpence too much. (The retriever drives a cold snivelling muzzle 
against his hand, wagging his tail.) Strange how they take to me. Even that brute today. Better 
speak to him first. Like women they like rencontres. Stinks like a polecat. Chacun son gout. He 
might be mad. Dogdays. Uncertain in his movements. Good fellow! Fido! Good fellow! Garryowen! 
(The wolfdog sprawls on his back, wriggling obscenely with begging paws, his long black 
tongue lolling out.) Influence of his surroundings. Give and have done with it. Provided nobody. 
(Calling encouraging words he shambles back with a furtive poacher's tread, dogged by the 
setter into a dark stalestunk corner. He unrolls one parcel and goes to dump the crubeen softly 
but holds back and feels the trotter.) Sizeable for threepence. But then I have it in my left hand. 
Calls for more effort. Why? Smaller from want of use. O, let it slide. Two and six. 

(With regret he lets the unrolled crubeen and trotter slide. The mastiff mauls the bundle 
clumsily and gluts himself with growling greed, crunching the bones. Two raincaped watch 
approach, silent, vigilant. They murmur together.) 

THE WATCH: Bloom Of Bloom For Bloom Bloom 

(Each lays hand on Bloom 's shoulder.) 

FIRST WATCH: Caught in the act. Commit no nuisance. 

BLOOM: (Stammers) I am doing good to others. 

(A covey of gulls, storm petrels, rises hungrily from Liffey slime with Banbury cakes in their 
beaks.) 

THE GULLS: Kaw kave kankury kake. 

BLOOM: The friend of man. Trained by kindness. 

(He points. Bob Doran, toppling from a high barstool, sways over the munching spaniel.) 

BOB DORAN: Towser. Give us the paw. Give the paw. 

(The bulldog growls, his scruff standing, a gobbet of pig's knuckle between his molars 
through which rabid scumspittle dribbles. Bob Doran fills silently into an area.) 

SECOND WATCH: Prevention of cruelty to animals. 

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BLOOM: (Enthusiastically) A noble work! I scolded that tramdriver on Harold's cross bridge for 
illusing the poor horse with his harness scab. Bad French I got for my pains. Of course it was frosty 
and the last tram All tales of circus life are highly demoralising. 

(Signor Maffei, passionpale, in liontamer's costume with diamond studs in his shirtfront, 
steps forward, holding a circus paperhoop, a curling carriagewhip and a revolver with which 
he covers the gorging boarhound.) 

SIGNOR MAFFEI: (With a sinister smile) Ladies and gentlemen, my educated greyhound. It was 
I broke in the bucking broncho Ajax with my patent spiked saddle for carnivores. Lash under the belly 
with a knotted thong. Block tackle and a strangling pulley will bring your lion to heel, no matter how 
fractious, even Leo ferox there, the Libyan maneater. A redhot crowbar and some liniment rubbing on 
the burning part produced Fritz of Amsterdam, the thinking hyena. (He glares) I possess the Indian 
sign. The glint of my eye does it with these breastsparklers. (With a bewitching smile) I now 
introduce Mademoiselle Ruby, the pride of the ring. 

FIRST WATCH: Come. Name and address. 

BLOOM: I have forgotten for the moment. Ah, yes! (He takes off his high grade hat, saluting) 
Dr Bloom, Leopold, dental surgeon. You have heard of von Blum Pasha. Umpteen millions. 
Donnerwetter! Owns half Austria. Egypt. Cousin. 

FIRST WATCH: Proof 

(A card falls from inside the leather headband of Bloom 's hat.) 

BLOOM: (In red fez, cadi's dress coat with broad green sash, wearing a false badge of the 
Legion of Honour, picks up the card hastily and offers it) Allow me. My club is the Junior Army 
and Navy. Solicitors: Messrs John Henry Menton, 27 Bachelor's Walk. 

FIRST WATCH: (Reads) Henry Flower. No fixed abode. Unlawfully watching and besetting. 

SECOND WATCH: An alibi You are cautioned. 

BLOOM: (Produces from his heartpochet a crumpled yellow flower) This is the flower in 
question. It was given me by a man I don't know his name. (Plausibly) You know that old joke, rose 
of Castile. Bloom The change of name. Virag (He murmurs privately and confidentially) We are 
engaged you see, sergeant. Lady in the case. Love entanglement. (He shoulders the second watch 
gently) Dash it all It's a way we gallants have in the navy. Uniform that does it. (He turns gravely to 
the first watch) Still, of course, you do get your Waterloo sometimes. Drop in some evening and 
have a glass of old Burgundy. (To the second watch gaily) I'll introduce you, inspector. She's game. 
Do it in the shake of a lamb's tai 

(A dark mercurialised face appears, leading a veiled figure.) 

THE DARK MERCURY: The Castle is looking for him He was drummed out of the army. 

MARTHA: (Thickv eiled, a crimson halter round her neck, a copy of the Irish Times in her 
hand, in tone of reproach, pointing) Henry! Leopold! Lionel, thou lost one! Clear my name. 

FIRST WATCH: (Sternly) Come to the station. 

BLOOM: (Scared, hats himself, steps back, then, plucking at his heart and lifting his right 
forearm on the square, he gives the sign and dueguard of fellow craft) No, no, worshipful master, 
light of love. Mistaken identity. The Lyons mail Lesurques and Dubosc. You remember the Childs 
fratricide case. We medical men By striking him dead with a hatchet. I am wrongfully accused. Better 
one guilty escape than ninetynine wrongfully condemned. 

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MARTHA: (Sobbing behind her veil) Breach of promise. My real name is Peggy Griffin. He 
wrote to me that he was miserable. I'll tell my brother, the Bective rugger fullback, on you, heartless 
flirt. 

BLOOM: (Behind his hand) She's drunk. The woman is inebriated. (He murmurs vaguely the 
pass of Ephraim) Shitbroleeth. 

SECOND WATCH: (Tears in his eyes, to Bloom) You ought to be thoroughly well ashamed of 
yourself 

BLOOM: Gentlemen of the jury, let me explain. A pure mare's nest. I am a man misunderstood. I 
am being made a scapegoat of I am a respectable married man, without a stain on my character. I live 
in Eccles street. My wife, I am the daughter of a most distinguished commander, a gallant upstanding 
gentleman, what do you call him, Majorgeneral Brian Tweedy, one of Britain's fighting men who 
helped to win our battles. Got his majority for the heroic defence of Rorke's Drift. 

FIRST WATCH: Regiment. 

BLOOM: (Turns to the gallery) The royal Dublins, boys, the salt of the earth known the world 
over. I think I see some old comrades in arms up there among you The R D. F., with our own 
Metropolitan police, guardians of our homes, the pluckiest lads and the finest body of men, as 
physique, in the service of our sovereign. 

A VOICE: Turncoat! Up the Boers! Who booed Joe Chamberlain? 

BLOOM: (His hand on the shoulder of the first watch) My old dad too was a J. P. I'm as 
staunch a Britisher as you are, sir. I fought with the colours for king and country in the absentminded 
war under general Gough in the park and was disabled at Spion Kop and Bloemfontein, was 
mentioned in dispatches. I did all a white man could. (With quiet feeling) Jim BLidso. Hold her nozzle 
again the bank. 

FIRST WATCH: Profession or trade. 

BLOOM: Well, I follow a literary occupation, author- journalist. In fact we are just bringing out a 
collection of prize stories of which I am the inventor, something that is an entirely new departure. I am 
connected with the British and Irish press. If you ring up... 

(Myles Crawford strides out jerkily, a quill between his teeth. His scarlet beak blazes within 
the aureole of his straw hat. He dangles a hank of Spanish onions in one hand and holds with 
the other hand a telephone receiver nozzle to his ear.) 

MYLES CRAWFORD: (His cock's wattles wagging) Hello, seventyseven eightfour. Hello. 
Freeman's Urinal and Weekly Arsewipe here. Paralyse Europe. You which? BLiebags? Who 
writes? Is it Bloom? 

(Mr Philip Beaufoy, palefaced, stands in the witnessbox, in accurate morning dress, 
outbreast pocket with peak of handkerchief showing, creased lavender trousers and patent 
boots. He carries a large portfolio labelled Matcham's Masterstrokes.) 

BEAUFOY: (Drawls) No, you aren't. Not by a long shot if I know it. I don't see it that's all No 
born gentleman, no-one with the most rudimentary promptings of a gentleman would stoop to such 
particularly loathsome conduct. One of those, my lord. A plagiarist. A soapy sneak masquerading as a 
litterateur. It's perfectly obvious that with the most inherent baseness he has cribbed some of my 
bestselling copy, really gorgeous stuff, a perfect gem, the love passages in which are beneath 
suspicion The Beaufoy books of love and great possessions, with which your lordship is doubtless 
familiar, are a household word throughout the kingdom. 

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BLOOM: (Murmurs with hangdog meekness glum) That bit about the laughing witch hand in 
hand I take exception to, if I may... 

BEAUFOY: (His lip upcurled, smiles superciliously on the court) You funny ass, you! You're 
too beastly awfully weird for words! I don't think you need over excessively disincommodate yourself 
in that regard. My literary agent Mr J. B. Pinker is in attendance. I presume, my lord, we shall receive 
the usual witnesses' fees, shan't we? We are considerably out of pocket over this bally pressman 
johnny, this jackdaw of Pdieims, who has not even been to a university. 

BLOOM: (Indistinctly) University of life. Bad art. 

BEAUFOY: (Shouts) It's a damnably foul lie, showing the moral rottenness of the man! (He 
extends his portfolio) We have here damning evidence, the corpus delicti, my lord, a specimen of 
my maturer work disfigured by the hallmark of the beast. 

A VOICE FROM THE GALLERY: 

Moses, Moses, king of the jews, Wiped his arse in the Dairy News. 

BLOOM: (Bravely) Overdrawn. 

BEAUFOY: You low cad! You ought to be ducked in the horsepond, you rotter! (To the court) 
Why, look at the man's private life! Leading a quadruple existence! Street angel and house devil. Not 
fit to be mentioned in mixed society! The archconspirator of the age! 

BLOOM: (To the court) And he, a bachelor, how... 

FIRST WATCH: The King versus Bloom Call the woman DriscolL 

THE CRIER: Mary Driscoll, scullerymaid! 

(Mary Driscoll, a slipshod servant girl, approaches. She has a bucket on the crook of her arm 
and a scouringbrush in her hand.) 

SECOND WATCH: Another! Are you of the unfortunate class? 

MARY DRISCOLL: (Indignantly) I'm not a bad one. I bear a respectable character and was four 
months in my last place. I was in a situation, six pounds a year and my chances with Fridays out and I 
had to leave owing to his carryings on. 

FIRST WATCH: What do you tax him with? 

MARY DRISCOLL: He made a certain suggestion but I thought more of myself as poor as I am 

BLOOM: (In housejacket of ripplecloth, flannel trousers, heelless slippers, unshaven, his hair 
rumpled: softly) I treated you white. I gave you mementos, smart emerald garters far above your 
station. Incautiously I took your part when you were accused of pilfering. There's a medium in all 
things. Play cricket. 

MARY DRISCOLL: (Excitedly) As God is looking down on me this night if ever I laid a hand to 
them oysters! 

FIRST WATCH: The offence complained of? Did something happen? 

MARY DRISCOLL: He surprised me in the rere of the premises, Your honour, when the missus 
was out shopping one morning with a request for a safety pin. He held me and I was discoloured in 
four places as a result. And he interfered twict with my clothing. 

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BLOOM: She counterassaulted. 

MARY DRISCOLL: (Scornfully) I had more respect for the scouringbrush, so I had. I 
remonstrated with him, Your lord, and he remarked: keep it quiet. 

(General laughter.) 

GEORGE FOTTRELL: (Clerk of the crown and peace, resonantly) Order in court! The 
accused will now make a bogus statement. 

(Bloom, pleading not guilty and holding a fullblown waterlily, begins a long unintelligible 
speech. They would hear what counsel had to say in his stirring address to the grand jury. He 
was down and out but, though branded as a black sheep, if he might say so, he meant to 
reform, to retrieve the memory of the past in a purely sisterly way and return to nature as a 
purely domestic animal. A sevenmonths' child, he had been carefully brought up and nurtured 
by an aged bedridden parent. There might have been lapses of an erring father but he wanted 
to turn over a new leaf and now, when at long last in sight of the whipping post, to lead a 
homely life in the evening of his days, permeated by the affectionate surroundings of the 
heaving bosom of the family. An acclimatised Britisher, he had seen that summer eve from the 
footplate of an engine cab of the Loop line railway company while the rain refrained from 
falling glimpses, as it were, through the windows ofloveful households in Dublin city and urban 
district of scenes truly rural of happiness of the better land with Dockrell's wallpaper at one 
and ninepence a dozen, innocent Britishborn bairns lisping prayers to the Sacred Infant, 
youthful scholars grappling with their pensums or model young ladies playing on the pianoforte 
or anon all with fervour reciting the family rosary round the crackling Yulelog while in the 
boreens and green lanes the colleens with their swains strolled what times the strains of the 
organtoned melodeon Britannia metalbound with four acting stops and twelvefold bellows, a 
sacrifice, greatest bargain ever. . . 

(Renewed laughter. He mumbles incoherently. Reporters complain that they cannot hear.) 

LONGHAND AND SHORTHAND: (Without looking up from their notebooks) Loosen his 
boots. 

PROFESSOR MACHUGH: (From the presstable, coughs and calls) Cough it up, man Get it 
out in bits. 

(The crossexamination proceeds re Bloom and the bucket. A large bucket. Bloom himself. 
Bowel trouble. In Beaver street Gripe, yes. Quite bad. A plasterer's bucket. By walking 
stifflegged. Suffered untold misery. Deadly agony. About noon. Love or burgundy. Yes, some 
spinach. Crucial moment. He did not look in the bucket Nobody. Rather a mess. Not 
completely. A Titbits back number.) 

(Uproar and catcalls. Bloom in a torn frockcoat stained with whitewash, dinged silk hat 
sideways on his head, a strip of stickingplaster across his nose, talks inaudibly.) 

J. J. O'MOLLOY: (In barrister's grey wig and stuffgown, speaking with a voice of pained 
protest) This is no place for indecent levity at the expense of an erring mortal disguised in liquor. We 
are not in a beargarden nor at an Oxford rag nor is this a travesty of justice. My client is an infant, a 
poor foreign immigrant who started scratch as a stowaway and is now trying to turn an honest penny. 
The trumped up misdemeanour was due to a momentary aberration of heredity, brought on by 
hallucination, such familiarities as the alleged guilty occurrence being quite permitted in my client's 
native place, the land of the Pharaoh Prima facie, I put it to you that there was no attempt at carnally 
knowing. Intimacy did not occur and the offence complained of by Driscoll, that her virtue was 
solicited, was not repeated. I would deal in especial with atavism There have been cases of 

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shipwreck and somnambulism in my client's family. If the accused could speak he could a tale unfold 
— one of the strangest that have ever been narrated between the covers of a book. He himself, my 
lord, is a physical wreck from cobbler's weak chest. His submission is that he is of Mongolian 
extraction and irresponsible for his actions. Not all there, in fact. 

BLOOM: (Barefoot, pigeonbreasted, in lascar's vest and trousers, apologetic toes turned in, 
opens his tiny mole's eyes and looks about him dazedly, passing a slow hand across his 
forehead. Then he hitches his belt sailor fashion and with a shrug of oriental obeisance salutes 
the court, pointing one thumb heavenward.) Him makee velfy muchee fine night. (He begins to lilt 
simply) 

Li li poo lil chile 
Blingee pigfoot evfy night 
Payee two shifry... 

(He is howled down.) 

J. J. O'MOLLOY: (Hotly to the populace) This is a lonehand fight. By Hades, I will not have any 
client of mine gagged and badgered in this fashion by a pack of curs and laughing hyenas. The Mosaic 
code has superseded the law of the jungle. I say it and I say it emphatically, without wishing for one 
moment to defeat the ends of justice, accused was not accessory before the act and prosecutrix has 
not been tampered with The young person was treated by defendant as if she were his very own 
daughter. (Bloom takes J. J. O'Molloy's hand and raises it to his lips.) I shall call rebutting evidence 
to prove up to the hilt that the hidden hand is again at its old game. When in doubt persecute Bloom 
My client, an innately bashful man, would be the last man in the world to do anything ungentlemanry 
which injured modesty could object to or cast a stone at a girl who took the wrong turning when some 
dastard, responsible for her condition, had worked his own sweet will on her. He wants to go straight. 
I regard him as the whitest man I know. He is down on his Lick at present owing to the mortgaging of 
his extensive property at Agendath Netaim in faraway Asia Minor, slides of which will now be shown. 
(To Bloom) I suggest that you will do the handsome thing. 

BLOOM: A penny in the pound. 

(The image of the lake of Kinnereth with blurred cattle cropping in silver haze is projected 
on the wall. Moses Dlugacz, ferreteyed albino, in blue dungarees, stands up in the gallery, 
holding in each hand an orange citron and a pork kidney.) 

DLUGACZ: (Hoarsely) Bleibtreustrasse, Berlin, W.13. 

(J. J. O'Molloy steps on to a low plinth and holds the lapel of his coat with solemnity. His 
face lengthens, grows pale and bearded, with sunken eyes, the blotches of phthisis and hectic 
cheekbones of John F. Taylor. He applies his handkerchief to his mouth and scrutinises the 
galloping tide ofrosepink blood.) 

J.J.O'MOLLOY: (Almost voicelessly) Excuse me. I am suffering from a severe chill, have recently 
come from a sickbed. A few wellchosen words. (He assumes the avine head, foxy moustache and 
proboscidal eloquence of Seymour Bushe.) When the angel's book comes to be opened if aught that 
the pensive bosom has inaugurated of soultransfigured and of soultransfiguring deserves to live I say 
accord the prisoner at the bar the sacred benefit of the doubt. (A paper with something written on it 
is handed into court.) 

BLOOM: (In court dress) Can give best references. Messrs Callan, Coleman. Mr Wisdom Hery J. 
P. My old chief Joe Cuffe. Mr V. B. Dillon, ex lord mayor of Dublin I have moved in the charmed 
circle of the highest... Queens of Dublin society. (Carelessly) I was just chatting this afternoon at the 
viceregal lodge to my old pals, sir Robert and lady Ball, astronomer royal at the levee. Sir Bob, I 

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said... 

MRS YELVERTON BARRY: (In lowcorsaged opal balldress and elbowlength ivory gloves, 
wearing a sabletrimmed brickquilted dolman, a comb of brilliants and panache of osprey in her 
hair) Arrest him, constable. He wrote me an anonymous letter in prentice backhand when my 
husband was in the North Riding of Tipperary on the Munster circuit, signed James Lovebirch. He 
said that he had seen from the gods my peerless globes as I sat in a box of the Theatre Royal at a 
command performance of La Cigale. I deeply inflamed him, he said. He made improper overtures to 
me to misconduct myself at half past four p.m. on the following Thursday, Dunsink time. He offered to 
send me through the post a work of fiction by Monsieur Paul de Kock, entitled The Girl with the 
Three Pairs of Stays. 

MRS BELLINGHAM: (In cap and seal coney mantle, wrapped up to the nose, steps out of 
her brougham and scans through tortoiseshell quizzing-glasses which she takes from inside her 
huge opossum muff) Also to me. Yes, I believe it is the same objectionable person. Because he 
closed my carriage door outside sir Thornley Stoker's one sleety day during the cold snap of February 
ninetythree when even the grid of the wastepipe and the ballstop in my bath cistern were frozen. 
Subsequently he enclosed a bloom of edelweiss culled on the heights, as he said, in my honour. I had it 
examined by a botanical expert and elicited the information that it was ablossom of the homegrown 
potato plant purloined from a forcingcase of the model farm 

MRS YELVERTON BARRY: Shame on him! 

(A crowd of sluts and ragamuffins surges forward) 

THE SLUTS AND RAGAMUFFINS: (Screaming) Stop thief! Hurrah there, Bluebeard! Three 
cheers for Ikey Mo! 

SECOND WATCH: (Produces handcuffs) Here are the darbies. 

MRS BELLINGHAM: He addressed me in several handwritings with fulsome compliments as a 
Venus in furs and alleged profound pity for my frostbound coachman Palmer while in the same breath 
he expressed himself as envious of his earflaps and fleecy sheepskins and of his fortunate proximity to 
my person, when standing behind my chair wearing my livery and the armorial bearings of the 
Bellingham escutcheon garnished sable, a buck's head couped or. He lauded almost extravagantly my 
nether extremities, my swelling calves in silk hose drawn up to the limit, and eulogised glowingly my 
other hidden treasures in priceless lace which, he said, he could conjure up. He urged me (stating that 
he felt it his mission in life to urge me) to defile the marriage bed, to commit adultery at the earliest 
possible opportunity. 

THE HONOURABLE MRS MERVYN TALBOYS: (In amazon costume, hard hat, jackboots 
cockspurred, vermilion waistcoat, fawn musketeer gauntlets with braided drums, long train 
held up and hunting crop with which she strikes her welt constantly) Also me. Because he saw 
me on the polo ground of the Phoenix park at the match All Ireland versus the Rest of Ireland. My 
eyes, I know, shone divinely as I watched Captain Slogger Dennehy of the Inniskillings win the final 
chukkar on his darling cob Centaur. This plebeian Don Juan observed me from behind a hackney car 
and sent me in double envelopes an obscene photograph, such as are sold after dark on Paris 
boulevards, insulting to any lady. I have it still It represents a partially nude sefiorita, frail and lovely 
(his wife, as he solemnly assured me, taken by him from nature), practising illicit intercourse with a 
muscular torero, evidently a blackguard. He urged me to do likewise, to misbehave, to sin with 
officers of the garrison. He implored me to soil his letter in an unspeakable manner, to chastise him as 
he richly deserves, to bestride and ride him, to give him a most vicious horsewhipping. 

MRS BELLINGHAM: Me too. 

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MRS YELVERTON BARRY: Me too. 

(Several highly respectable Dublin ladies hold up improper letters received from Bloom.) 

THE HONOURABLE MRS MERVYN TALBOYS: (Stamps her jingling spurs in a sudden 
paroxysm of fury) I will, by the God above me. I'll scourge the pigeonlivered cur as long as I can 
stand over him. I'll flay him alive. 

BLOOM: (His eyes closing, quails expectantly) Here? (He squirms) Again! (He pants cringing) 
I love the danger. 

THE HONOURABLE MRS MERVYN TALBOYS: Very much so! I'll make it hot for you. I'll 
make you dance Jack Latten for that. 

MRS BELLiNGHAM: Tan his breech well, the upstart! Write the stars and stripes on it! 

MRS YELVERTON BARRY: Disgraceful! There's no excuse for him! A married man! 

BLOOM: All these people. I meant only the spanking idea. A warm tingling glow without effusion 
Refined birching to stimulate the circulation. 

THE HONOURABLE MRS MERVYN TALBOYS: (Laughs derisively) O, did you, my fine 
fellow? Well, by the living God, you'll get the surprise of your life now, believe me, the most unmerciful 
hiding a man ever bargained for. You have lashed the dormant tigress in my nature into fury. 

MRS BELLINGHAM: (Shakes her muff and quizzing-glasses vindictively) Make him smart, 
Hanna dear. Give him ginger. Thrash the mongrel within an inch of his life. The cat-o'-nine-tails. Geld 
him Vivisect him 

BLOOM: (Shuddering, shrinking, joins his hands: with hangdog mien) O cold! O shivery! It 
was your ambrosial beauty. Forget, forgive. Kismet. Let me off this once. (He offers the other 
cheek) 

MRS YELVERTON BARRY: (Severely) Don't do so on any account, Mrs Talboys! He should 
be soundly trounced! 

THE HONOURABLE MRS MERVYN TALBOYS: (Unbuttoning her gauntlet violently) I'll 
do no such thing. Pigdog and always was ever since he was pupped! To dare address me! I'll flog him 
black and blue in the public streets. I'll dig my spurs in him up to the roweL He is a wellknown 
cuckold. (She swishes her huntingcrop savagely in the air) Take down his trousers without loss of 
time. Come here, sir! Quick! Ready? 

BLOOM: (Trembling, beginning to obey) The weather has been so warm 

(Davy Stephens, ringletted, passes with a bevy of barefoot newsboys.) 

DAVY STEPHENS: Messenger of the Sacred Heart and Evening Telegraph with Saint 
Patrick's Day supplement. Containing the new addresses of all the cuckolds in Dublin. 

(The very reverend Canon OHanlon in cloth of gold cope elevates and exposes a marble 
timepiece. Before him Father Conroy and the reverend John Hughes S.J. bend low.) 

THE TIMEPIECE: (Unport ailing) 

Cuckoo. 
Cuckoo. 
Cuckoo. 



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(The brass quoits of a bed are heard to jingle.) 

THE QUOITS: Jigjag. Jigajiga. Jigjag 

(A panel of fog rolls back rapidly, revealing rapidly in the jurybox the faces of Martin 
Cunningham, foreman, silkhatted, Jack Power, Simon Dedalus, Tom Kernan, Ned Lambert, 
John Henry Menton Myles Crawford, Lenehan, Paddy Leonard, Nosey Flynn, M'Coy and the 
featureless face of a Nameless One.) 

THE NAMELESS ONE: Bareback riding. Weight for age. Gob, he organised her. 

THE JURORS: (All their heads turned to his voice) Realty? 

THE NAMELESS ONE: (Snarls) Arse over tip. Hundred shillings to five. 

THE JURORS: (All their heads lowered in assent) Most of us thought as much. 

FIRST WATCH: He is a marked man Another girl's plait cut. Wanted: Jack the Ripper. A 
thousand pounds reward. 

SECOND WATCH: (Awed, whispers) And in black. A mormon. Anarchist. 

THE CRIER: (Loudly) Whereas Leopold Bloom of no fixed abode is a welknown dynamitard, 
forger, bigamist, bawd and cuckold and a public nuisance to the citizens of Dublin and whereas at this 
commission of assizes the most honourable... 

(His Honour, sir Frederick Falkiner, recorder of Dublin, in judicial garb of grey stone rises 
from the bench, stonebearded. He bears in his arms an umbrella sceptre. From his forehead 
arise starkly the Mosaic ramshorns.) 

THE RECORDER: I will put an end to this white slave traffic and rid Dublin of this odious pest. 
Scandalous! (He dons the black cap) Let him be taken, Mr Subsheritf, from the dock where he now 
stands and detained in custody in Mountjoy prison during His Majesty's pleasure and there be hanged 
by the neck until he is dead and therein fail not at your peril or may the Lord have mercy on your soul. 
Remove him. (A black skullcap descends upon his head.) 

(The subsheriff Long John Fanning appears, smoking a pungent Henry Clay.) 

LONG JOHN FANNING: (Scowls and calls with rich rolling utterance) Who'll hang Judas 
Iscariot? 

(H Rumbold, master barber, in a bloodcoloured jerkin and tanner's apron, a rope coiled 
over his shoulder, mounts the block. A life preserver and a nailstudded bludgeon are stuck in 
his belt. He rubs grimly his grappling hands, knobbed with knuckledusters.) 

RUMBOLD: (To the recorder with sinister familiarity) Hanging Harry, your Majesty, the 
Mersey terror. Five guineas a jugular. Neck or nothing. 

(The bells of George's church toll slowly, loud dark iron.) 

THE BELLS: Heigho! Heigho! 

BLOOM: (Desperately) Wait. Stop. Gulls. Good heart. I saw. Innocence. Girl in the 
monkeyhouse. Zoo. Lewd chimpanzee. (Breathlessly) Pelvic basin. Her artless blush unmanned me. 
(Overcome with emotion) I left the precincts. (He turns to a figure in the crowd, appealing) Hynes, 
may I speak to you? You know me. That three shillings you can keep. If you want a little more... 

HYNES: (Coldly) You are a perfect stranger. 

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SECOND WATCH: (Points to the corner) The bomb is here. 

FIRST WATCH: Infernal machine with a time fuse. 

BLOOM: No, no. Pig's feet. I was at a funeraL 

FIRST WATCH: (Draws his truncheon) Liar! 

(The beagle lifts his snout, showing the grey scorbutic face of Paddy Dignam. He has gnawed 
all. He exhales a putrid carcasefed breath. He grows to human size and shape. His dachshund 
coat becomes a brown mortuary habit. His green eye flashes bloodshot. Half of one ear, all the 
nose and both thumbs are ghouleaten.) 

PADDY DIGNAM: (In a hollow voice) It is true. It was my funeraL Doctor Finucane pronounced 
life extinct when I succumbed to the disease from natural causes. 

(He lifts his mutilated ashen face moonwards and bays lugubriously.) 

BLOOM: (In triumph) You hear? 

PADDY DIGNAM: Bloom, I am Paddy Dignam' s spirit. List, list, O list! 

BLOOM: The voice is the voice of Esau. 

SECOND WATCH: (Blesses himself) How is that possible? 

FIRST WATCH: It is not in the penny catechism 

PADDY DIGNAM: By metempsychosis. Spooks. 

A VOICE: O rocks. 

PADDY DIGNAM: (Earnestly) Once I was in the employ of Mr J. H. Menton, solicitor, 
commissioner for oaths and affidavits, of 27 Bachelor's Walk. Now I am defunct, the wall of the heart 
hypertrophied. Hard lines. The poor wife was awfully cut up. How is she bearing it? Keep her off that 
bottle of sherry. (He looks round him) A Lamp. I must satisfy an animal need. That buttermilk didn't 
agree with me. 

(The portly figure of John O'Connell, caretaker, stands forth, holding a bunch of keys tied 
with crape. Beside him stands Father Coffey, chaplain, toadbellied, wrynecked, in a surplice 
and bandanna nightcap, holding sleepily a staff twisted poppies.) 

FATHER COFFEY: (Yawns, then chants with a hoarse croak) Namine. Jacobs. Vobiscuits. 
Amen. 

JOHN O'CONNELL: (Foghorns stormily through his megaphone) Dignam, Patrick T, 
deceased. 

PADDY DIGNAM: (With pricked up ears, winces) Overtones. (He wriggles forward and 
places an ear to the ground) My master's voice! 

JOHN O'CONNELL: Burial docket letter number U. P. eightyfive thousand. Field seventeen. 
House of Keys. Plot, one hundred and one. 

(Paddy Dignam listens with visible effort, thinking, his tail stiffpointcd, his ears cocked.) 

PADDY DIGNAM: Pray for the repose of his souL 

(He worms down through a coalhole, his brown habit trailing its tether over rattling pebbles. 
After him toddles an obese grandfather rat on fungus turtle paws under a grey carapace. 

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Dignam 's voice, muffled, is heard baying under ground: Dignam's dead and gone below. Tom 
Rochford, robinredbreasted, in cap and breeches, jumps from his twocolumned machine.) 

TOM ROCHFORD: (A hand to his breastbone, bows) Reuben J. A florin I find him (He fixes 
the manhole with a resolute stare) My turn now on. Follow me up to Carlo w. 

(He executes a daredevil salmon leap in the air and is engulfed in the coalhole. Two discs on 
the columns wobble, eyes of nought. All recedes. Bloom plodges forward again through the 
sump. Kisses chirp amid the rifts of fog a piano sounds. He stands before a lighted house, 
listening. The kisses, winging from their bowers fly about him, twittering, warbling, cooing.) 

THE KISSES: (Warbling) Leo! (Twittering) Icky licky micky sticky for Leo! (Cooing) Coo 
coocoo! Yurnmyyum Womwom! (Warbling) Big comebig! Pirouette! Leopopold! (Twittering) 
Leeolee! (Warbling) O Leo! 

(They rustle, flutter upon his garments, alight, bright giddy flecks, silvery sequins.) 

BLOOM: A man's touch. Sad music. Church music. Perhaps here. 

(Zoe Higgins, a young whore in a sapphire slip, closed with three bronze buckles, a slim 
black velvet fillet round her throat, nods, trips down the steps and accosts him.) 

ZOE: Are you looking for someone? He's inside with his friend. 

BLOOM: Is this Mrs Mack's? 

ZOE: No, eightyone. Mrs Cohen's. You might go farther and fare worse. Mother Slipperslapper. 
(Familiarly) She's on the job herself tonight with the vet her tipster that gives her all the winners and 
pays for her son in Oxford. Working overtime but her luck's turned today. (Suspiciously) You're not 
his father, are you? 

BLOOM: Not I! 

ZOE: You both in black. Has little mousey any tickles tonight? 

(His skin, alert, feels her fingertips approach. A hand glides over his left thigh.) 

ZOE: How's the nuts? 

BLOOM: Offside. Curiously they are on the right. Heavier, I suppose. One in a million my tailor, 
Mesias, says. 

ZOE: (In sudden alarm) You've a hard chancre. 

BLOOM: Not likely. 

ZOE: I feel it. 

(Her hand slides into his left trouser pocket and brings out a hard black shrivelled potato. 
She regards it and Bloom with dumb moist lips.) 

BLOOM: A talisman. Heirloom 

ZOE: For Zoe? For keeps? For being so nice, eh? 

(She puts the potato greedily into a pocket then links his arm, cuddling him with supple 
warmth. He smiles uneasily. Slowly, note by note, oriental music is played. He gazes in the 
tawny crystal of her eyes, ringed with kohol. His smile softens.) 

ZOE: You'll know me the next time. 

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BLOOM: (Forlornly) I never loved a dear gazelle but it was sure to... 

(Gazelles are leaping, feeding on the mountains. Near are lakes. Round their shores file 
shadows black of cedargroves. Aroma rises, a strong hairgrowth of resin. It burns, the orient, a 
sky of sapphire, cleft by the bronze flight of eagles. Under it lies the womancity nude, white, 
still, cool, in luxury. A fountain murmurs among damask roses. Mammoth roses murmur of 
scarlet winegrapes. A wine of shame, lust, blood exudes, strangely murmuring.) 

ZOE: (Murmuring singsong with the music, her odalisk lips lusciously smeared with salve of 
swinefat and rosewater) Schorach ani wenowach, benoith Hierushaloim. 

BLOOM: (Fascinated) I thought you were of good stock by your accent. 

ZOE: And you know what thought did? 

(She bites his ear gently with little goldstopped teeth, sending on him a cloying breath of 
stale garlic. The roses draw apart, disclose a sepulchre of the gold of kings and their 
mouldering bones.) 

BLOOM: (Draws back, mechanically caressing her right bub with aflat awkward hand) Are 
you a Dublin girl? 

ZOE: (Catches a stray hair deftly and twists it to her coil) No bloody fear. I'm English. Have 
you a swaggerroot? 

BLOOM: (As before) Rarefy smoke, dear. Cigar now and then. Childish device. (Lewdly) The 
mouth can be better engaged than with a cylinder of rank weed. 

ZOE: Go on. Make a stump speech out of it. 

BLOOM: (In workman's corduroy overalls, black gansy with red floating tie and apache cap) 
Mankind is incorrigible. Sir Walter Ralegh brought from the new world that potato and that weed, the 
one a killer of pestilence by absorption, the other a poisoner of the ear, eye, heart, memory, will 
understanding, all That is to say he brought the poison a hundred years before another person whose 
name I forget brought the food. Suicide. Lies. All our habits. Why, look at our public life! 

(Midnight chimes from distant steeples.) 

THE CHIMES: Turn again, Leopold! Lord mayor of Dublin! 

BLOOM: (In alderman's gown and chain) Electors of Arran Quay, Inns Quay, Rotunda, 
Mountjoy and North Dock, better run a tramline, I say, from the cattlemarket to the river. That's the 
music of the future. That's my programme. Cui bono? But our bucaneering Vanderdeckens in their 
phantom ship of finance... 

AN ELECTOR: Three times three for our future chief magistrate! 

(The aurora borealis of the torchlight procession leaps.) 

THE TORCHBEARERS: Hooray! 

(Several wellknown burgesses, city magnates and freemen of the city shake hands with 
Bloom and congratulate him. Timothy Harrington, late thrice Lord Mayor of Dublin, imposing 
in mayoral scarlet, gold chain and white silk tie, confers with councillor Lorcan Sherlock, 
locum tenens. They nod vigorously in agreement.) 

LATE LORD MAYOR HARRINGTON: (In scarlet robe with mace, gold mayoral chain and 
large white silk scarf) That alderman sir Leo Bloom's speech be printed at the expense of the 

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ratepayers. That the house in which he was born be ornamented with a commemorative tablet and that 
the thoroughfare hitherto known as Cow Parlour off Cork street be henceforth designated Boulevard 
Bloom 

COUNCILLOR LORCAN SHERLOCK: Carried unanimously. 

BLOOM: (Impassionedly) These flying Dutchmen or lying Dutchmen as they recline in their 
upholstered poop, casting dice, what reck they? Machines is their cry, their chimera, their panacea. 
Laboursaving apparatuses, supplanters, bugbears, manufactured monsters for mutual murder, hideous 
hobgoblins produced by a horde of capitalistic lusts upon our prostituted labour. The poor man 
starves while they are grassing their royal mountain stags or shooting peasants and phartridges in their 
purblind pomp of pelf and power. But their reign is rover for rever and ever and ev... 

(Prolonged applause. Venetian masts, maypoles and festal arches spring up. A streamer 
bearing the legends Cead Mile Failte and Mah Ttob Melek Israel Spans the street. All the 
windows are thronged with sightseers, chiefly ladies. Along the route the regiments of the royal 
Dublin Fusiliers, the King's own Scottish Borderers, the Cameron Highlanders and the Welsh 
Fusiliers standing to attention, keep back the crowd. Boys from High school are perched on the 
lampposts, telegraph poles, windowsills, cornices, gutters, chimneypots, railings, rainspouts, 
whistling and cheering the pillar of the cloud appears. A fife and drum band is heard in the 
distance playing the Kol Nidre. The beaters approach with imperial eagles hoisted, trailing 
banners and waving oriental palms. The chryselephantine papal standard rises high, 
surrounded by pennons of the civic flag. The van of the procession appears headed by John 
Howard Parnell, city marshal, in a chessboard tabard, the Athlone Poursuivant and Ulster 
King of Arms. They are followed by the Right Honourable Joseph Hutchinson, lord mayor of 
Dublin, his lordship the lord mayor of Cork, their worships the mayors of Limerick, Galway, 
Sligo and Waterford, twenty eight Irish representative peers, sirdars, grandees and maharajahs 
bearing the cloth of estate, the Dublin Metropolitan Fire Brigade, the chapter of the saints of 
finance in their plutocratic order of precedence, the bishop of Down and Connor, His Eminence 
Michael cardinal Logue, archbishop of Armagh, primate of all Ireland, His Grace, the most 
reverend Dr William Alexander, archbishop of Armagh, primate of all Ireland, the chief rabbi, 
the presbyterian moderator, the heads of the baptist, anabaptist, methodist and Moravian 
chapels and the honorary secretary of the society of friends. After them march the guilds and 
trades and trainbands with flying colours: coopers, bird fanciers, millwrights, newspaper 
canvassers, law scriveners, masseurs, vintners, trussmakers, chimneysweeps, lard refiners, 
tabinet and poplin weavers, farriers, Italian warehousemen, church decorators, bootjack 
manufacturers, undertakers, silk mercers, lapidaries, salesmasters, corkcutters, assessors of 
fire losses, dyers and cleaners, export bottlers, fellmongers, ticketwriters, heraldic seal 
engravers, horse repository hands, bullion brokers, cricket and archery outfitters, 
riddlemakers, egg and potato factors, hosiers and glovers, plumbing contractors. After them 
march gentlemen of the bedchamber, Black Rod, Deputy Garter, Gold Stick, the master of 
horse, the lord great chamberlain, the earl marshal, the high constable carrying the sword of 
state, saint Stephen's iron crown, the chalice and bible. Four buglers on foot blow a sennet. 
Beefeaters reply, winding clarions of welcome. Under an arch of triumph Bloom appears, 
bareheaded, in a crimson velvet mantle trimmed with ermine, bearing Saint Edward's staff the 
orb and sceptre with the dove, the curtana. He is seated on a milkwhite horse with long flowing 
crimson tail, richly caparisoned, with golden headstall. Wild excitement. The ladies from their 
balconies throw down rosepetals. The air is perfumed with essences. The men cheer. Bloom 's 
boys run amid the bystanders with branches of hawthorn and wrenbushes.) 

BLOOM'S BOYS: 



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The wren, the wren, 
The king of all birds, 
Saint Stephen's his day 
Was caught in the furze. 

A BLACKSMITH: (Murmurs) For the honour of God! And is that Bloom? He scarcely looks 
thirtyone. 

A PAVIOR AND FLAGGER: That's the famous Bloom now, the world's greatest reformer. Hats 
off! 

(All uncover their heads. Women whisper eagerly.) 

A MILLIONAIRESS: (Richly) Isn't he simply wonderful? 

A NOBLEWOMAN: (Nobly) All that man has seen! 

A FEMINIST: (Masculinely) And done! 

A BELLHANGER: A classic face! He has the forehead of a thinker. 

(Bloom's weather. A sunburst appears in the northwest.) 

THE BISHOP OF DOWN AND CONNOR: I here present your undoubted emperor-president 
and king- chairman, the most serene and potent and very puissant ruler of this realm God save 
Leopold the First! 

ALL: God save Leopold the First! 

BLOOM: (In dalmatic and purple mantle, to the bishop of Down and Connor, with dignity) 
Thanks, somewhat eminent sir. 

WILLIAM, ARCHBISHOP OF ARMAGH: (In purple stock and shovel hat) Will you to your 
power cause law and mercy to be executed in all your judgments in Ireland and territories thereunto 
belonging? 

BLOOM: (Placing his right hand on his testicles, swears) So may the Creator deal with me. All 
this I promise to do. 

MICHAEL, ARCHBISHOP OF ARMAGH: (Pours a cruse of hairoil over Bloom's head) 
Gaudium magnum annuntio vobis. Habemus carneficem. Leopold, Patrick, Andrew, David, 
George, be thou anointed! 

(Bloom assumes a mantle of cloth of gold and puts on a ruby ring. He ascends and stands on 
the stone of destiny. The representative peers put on at the same time their twentyeight crowns. 
Joybells ring in Christ church, Saint Patrick's, George's and gay Malahide. Mirus bazaar 
fireworks go up from all sides with symbolical phallopyrotechnic designs. The peers do homage, 
one by one, approaching and genuflecting.) 

THE PEERS: I do become your liege man of life and limb to earthly worship. 

(Bloom holds up his right hand on which sparkles the Koh-i-Noor diamond. His palfrey 
neighs. Immediate silence. Wireless intercontinental and interplanetary transmitters are set for 
reception of message.) 

BLOOM: My subjects! We hereby nominate our faithful charger Copula Felix hereditary Grand 
Vizier and announce that we have this day repudiated our former spouse and have bestowed our royal 
hand upon the princess Selene, the splendour of night. 

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(The former morganatic spouse of Bloom is hastily removed in the Black Maria. The princess 
Selene, in moonblue robes, a silver crescent on her head, descends from a Sedan chair, borne 
by two giants. An outburst of cheering.) 

JOHN HOWARD PARNELL: (Raises the royal standard) Illustrious Bloom! Successor to my 
famous brother! 

BLOOM: (Embraces John Howard Parnell) We thank you from our heart, John, for this right 
royal welcome to green Erin, the promised land of our common ancestors. 

(The freedom of the city is presented to him embodied in a charter. The keys of Dublin, 
crossed on a crimson cushion, are given to him. He shows all that he is wearing green socks.) 

TOM KERN AN: You deserve it, your honour. 

BLOOM: On this day twenty years ago we overcame the hereditary enemy at Ladysmith. Our 
howitzers and camel swivel guns played on his lines with telling effect. Half a league onward! They 
charge! All is lost now! Do we yield? No! We drive them headlong! Lo! We charge! Deploying to the 
left our light horse swept across the heights of Plevna and, uttering their warcry Bonafide Sabaoth, 
sabred the Saracen gunners to a man. 

THE CHAPEL OF FREEMAN TYPESETTERS: Hear! Hear! 

JOHN WYSE NOLAN: There's the man that got away James Stephens. 

A BLUECOAT SCHOOLBOY: Bravo! 

AN OLD RESIDENT: You're a credit to your country, sir, that's what you are. 

AN APPLEWOMAN: He's a man like Ireland wants. 

BLOOM: My beloved subjects, a new era is about to dawn